


Destiny's Cycle

by WichitaRed



Category: Alias Smith and Jones
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 19:00:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 39,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21553546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WichitaRed/pseuds/WichitaRed
Summary: An enjoyable night of poker is interruptedDestiny’s Cycle is set during Heyes and Curry’s outlaw days.It tracks their lives, their rise to notoriety and how, at times Lady Luck misuses them.Each chapter is a mystery to me, as I do not think ahead, but write each one using the fanfic forums monthly challenge.(As I write, I would say it is for General Audiences, but since, I do not know where it is going in the future, I chose the Teen and Up rating to be safe.)I hope you enjoy how they travel Destiny’s wheel, and if you would like to let me know what you think, I would be pleased to hear your feedback.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 11





	1. False Start

“False Start”

Curry glided across the room, passing without a sound, not even his boot heels making staccato echoes on the battered wood floor; he appeared unaware of all about him, when in reality, his blue eyes, beneath his low pulled hat were everything occurring. 

Sliding into the chair, next to his partner, he thought, ‘Something’s fixin’ to happen. I can feel it.’ Exhaling slowly, he worked at getting his taut nerves to loosen. Exhaling once more, he slid his gaze to Heyes’, who was shuffling one-handed, with a grin that extolled he was shining on the other players. 

The cards were slipping, rolling together as smoothly as the wheels of a chugging steam engine. Curry’s eyes followed the cards, listening to the room, not hearing a word coming from his partner. Then the hair on the back of his neck stood up thick and stiff, and he thought, ‘It’s here.’ 

He did not need to search for the trouble, he knew it was there. Knew he was right, for being a gunslinger, this many years, had taught him a singular skill. One that kept not only himself alive, but Heyes too, and that was his keen senses. He had learned to rely on them, even when his partner teased him about being overcautious, to depend on them even if all seemed normal, to just simply trust them no matter what. 

Scanning the room, he kicked up from his chair, snagging hold of Heyes’ shoulder. Anyone observing, would think him over sauced on red-eye and needing extra leverage to stand. However, that was far from the truth, he had bolted to his feet, ready for action. Still, others did not need to know this, this was a trick Heyes had taught him, sometimes, feigning weakness will draw an opponent out, garnering you the upper hand. 

As he stood there, Curry dug his fingers deeper into the muscles of Heyes’ shoulder, pulling his partner’s concentration from the game. 

Which needed to be done, for Curry could feel danger about them, and there was not a member of the Devil’s Hole Gang, who did not know how lost their leader became in the details of a poker game. There were many times, Curry had chided Heyes that poker was going to be his undoing, one day. Furthermore, it was precisely the reason Curry preferred to not leave Heyes unattended whenever he bellied up to a green top. But, right now, this moment, he needed Heyes mentally with him. 

At the pinching jolt of pain that shot across his shoulder, Heyes’ mouth dry. Yet, he only allowed his dark eyes to casually drift from the pasteboards to survey the room. When he did, his brows dropped, the smallest bit, ‘Don’t see what has him out of sorts. No law dogs, or owl hoots to speak of.” He glanced up at his friend, ‘What has his hackles up?’ As he looked back to the table, he caught a movement, and his eyes locked on a rowdy, still a good way off, but even so, Heyes could read that he was working up to aim his courage Curry’s direction. 

Shrugging Curry’s hand from his shoulder, he shifted to look up into his face, needing to read what Curry was considering.

That was when the rowdy tossed his head, so his thick blonde, soaplock swung out of his eyes, as he barked, “Hey, you!” 

Stepping forward, he also revealed himself to be too young to correctly carry the title of man. Nevertheless, his snarling challenge yanked the heads of every tainted soul filling the room to him, and silence fell upon the crowd, like frogs circling up to an alkali pool. 

Heyes’ kept a close watch on his partner for a clue as to how bad this situation was likely to turn; and, when he saw the laughing Kid, he knew and loved so much, switch to the hardened gunslinger, Kid Curry; Heyes’ tightened into a flat line. It all happened fast, maybe even as fast as Curry could draw, but his gentle side was stored away before the word ‘you’ had become part of the full room. 

“Is you Kid Curry?” 

Curry’s icy eyes took in every inch of his challenger, which was not much as he was so thin, he barely cast a shadow. When he was done, he softly growled, “What’s it to you?” 

Licking his lips, the rowdy said, “Well…” Pausing, he licked his lips a second time, “I just… just…” Beads of sweat appeared on his smooth, upper lip, his breathing coming in short, huffing pants. 

When from the side corner, one of the rowdy’s pals, hollered, “Come on, Billie, bullypuss up and tell ‘em what ya told all of ‘n us.”

Curry’s eyes narrowed; he never cared for those who taunted from a safe distance. They were a skunk stripe who often proved themselves a site more dangerous than those who would face you. Raising his chin, Curry darkly asked, “What have you been saying?”

“They all think you are Kid Curry; they also say I’m fast enough to take you,” Billie answered.

Curry frowned.

“Doesn’t matter, ‘cause I told ‘em all I had seen Kid Curry over in Council Grove, and you ain’t really him.” 

“That so?”

Billie glanced toward his friends then back to Curry, “Told ‘em, yuse too old to be Curry.”

A snort, that he knew he would pay for later, erupted from Heyes, and with a grin, he went ahead a chuckled, thinking, ‘Boy has to be touched in the head. Up, hassling Kid, so he is ready to strike like a stepped on a rattle, only to inform ‘em, he is too old to be the real Kid Curry.’

Shifting his boot heels, Curry straightened into a more solid version of his gunfighter stance; and when he spoke, his tone carried years of experience, “if you know, I am not him… why in the hell are you pestering me?” 

“Well…” Billie swallowed, then puffed up his chest, squaring his shoulders, “Cause, once I walked out here, I up and decided, you might do as well as Kid Curry.”

Curry’s nostrils flared, he knew, everybody in the place was looking them both over, a fact he did not much appreciate. He also knew Billie was tottering on the edge of walking away or drawing. Figuring to spook the boy, he replied in a tone so cold the words could almost be seen floating across the room. “Go back to your friends, Boy, I’m tired of your damn foolishness!”

Inwardly, Heyes groaned, and with a sigh, he admired the three pretty ladies in his poker hand, then laid them face down, slipping his hand, under the table to unhitch the safety tie on his holster. 

Around the saloon, cackled chuckles answered Curry’s remark, and Billie’s own pals brayed with laughter. 

“I bet you are tired, old as you is and all.” Billie ground out between his gritted teeth, his shoulders rose a bit, “Hell, not only is you tired, I’d lay down coin you're scared, too. Scared like old men who hide behind their locked doors. Well, I’m tellin’ you, you don’t scare me none, not a bit.”

The skin about Curry’s eyes tightened, his blood pumping faster, “damnation, here it is again, another round of big dog, little dog, that is only going to leave me with more blood on my hands, and this boy can’t be more than maybe sixteen.’ Grinding his molars, Curry held his hard face, ‘damnation, but does have me a bit spooked, ain’t for what he’s thinking though, but because he’s like looking, years back, in a mirror.’ While considering all this, Curry had not responded, and as the air grew thicker, all eyes in the room turned his way wanting him to react. 

“HA! Knew you weren’t Kid Curry.” A belligerent laugh rolled from Billie, “Ain’t anyway, Kid Curry would of stood for being prodded.”

‘This needs to be shut down, there is little in this world more dangerous than a bum kid itching to prove they are a man.’ Heyes thought, and shaking his head, he moved to shove his chair back.

Low enough, only Heyes and those closest to him heard, Curry said, “Stay where you are, this ain’t over.” Then with an uncaring air, he folded his arms across his chest, his eyes never leaving Billie. 

“Fact is old man; I’ve concluded you ought to just tuck your tail and clear out of here.”

“You’ve had your say, Billie, even a bit of fun. Now go on back to your pals.”

Billie smiled brashly, becoming braver. “You are the only one movin’ old man, just trot yourself right out of here, right now.” 

“That isn’t happening, and I suggest you take yourself back over to your pals, while all your blood is still pumping around inside you.”

At Curry’s ultimatum, Heyes’ heart began hitting the inside of his chest like discharged cartridges from a Gatling gun. Of all the aftereffects their misspent youth had created, the one he regretted and loathed most were these repeated attempts to start his cousin on the road to see their families, without him. What’s more, every time one arose, it felt like he was too late to the starting gate, leaving him with no way to change the outcome, or more importantly, protect Kid. 

“You think I’m some yella dog, who back down when you snarl old man. Well, I ain’t,” Billie hollered back, tossing his hair from his eyes and hunching a bit as if he were fixing to make a play for his revolver.

Kid Curry did not shift, not even to unfold his arms. ‘He isn’t quite ready,” He thought, reading the boy, ‘He’ll push it a bit more before he draws.’ He took a steadying, shallow breath, “I can recall when this building pressure would have my blood boiling for the fight. Funny that I don’t feel the excitement I used to.’ Then the barest hint of a grin curled the corner of his lip, ‘hell, maybe, I am getting old. Used to be, starting back in those days when Heyes and I were apart, that I let my temper rule me. I lived by it and my Colt. But, it's those days that have turned me into bait for the big dog, little dog game, and I am so weary of the whole game.’ With his newfound realization, Curry hollered, “To hell with this game you up and started, take your life and go, Billie!”

Turning his head slightly, Billie studied Curry from the slant of his eyes, and then his lip raised into a snarl. “YOU obviously ain’t Kid Curry, but some drifter who wears his rig like he knows the dance. Bet the only dance you know is when someone is firing at your feet. So, unless you want me to start you dancin’, then you best skedaddle out of here….and I mean NOW!”


	2. Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heyes has an odd reaction regarding their past.
> 
> Destiny’s Cycle is set during Heyes and Curry’s outlaw days.   
> It tracks their lives, their rise to notoriety and how, at times Lady Luck misuses them. 
> 
> Each chapter is a mystery to me, as I do not think ahead, but write each one using the fanfic forums monthly challenge. (As I write, I would say it is for General Audiences, but since, I do not know where it is going in the future, I chose the Teen and Up rating to be safe.) I hope you enjoy how they travel Destiny’s wheel, and if you would like to let me know what you think, I would be pleased to hear your feedback.

“Ghosts”

The room turned toward Billie and the boy’s expression, coupled with the way his Adam’s apple was struggling in his throat, let all know precisely how close fear or, maybe brashness had him to pulling his pistol. 

Kid Curry, though, remained impassive as the march of time as he waited for the moment when he would be required to put this boy down, just as he had so many before him. This game always ended the same, it ended with blood. Blood and, most frequently, screams. 

It was the screams that disturbed Curry. Somehow they reminded him of the raiders at their family farms, so long ago, when he had been a boy. The blast of the Colt and even the spewed blood felt perfectly natural to him. But, it the screams, he loathed the screams. They wrung from him a secret plea that he could somehow halt this relentless trail of cordite and blood he had created for himself. 

Behind Curry, Hannibal Heyes uncoiled from the chair, any sound he made lost to the racket of saloon patron’s hustling from too close a proximity to harm’s way. As he stood there, Heyes’ jaw canted a bit to the side, his brows lowering, and he took a step closer to the action. ‘Where did that fog come from around Billie Boy?’ He took another step, his brows were furrowing so deep, the ridge of his nose had picked up a definite wrinkle. ‘It seems to be boiling straight out of Billie.’ A line of Macbeth nattered through Heyes’ thoughts, ‘… double, double toil and trouble…’ and he took another step.

Beside him, Kid exhaled, and in a low, detached voice, he stated, “walk away.”

Heyes glanced at him, then back at the rising, swirling vapor, ‘swear I can already smell the irony tang of blood.’ He looked to Curry again, and without asking, knew Curry was not experiencing anything out of the ordinary. A flash of heat raced across Heyes’ skin, leaving behind a trail of cold sweat. Closing his eyes, he pulled his lower lip through his teeth, but when he opened his eyes, the gray fog had coalesced, becoming....he swallowed hard, becoming shifty, shadows of men. 

Men swathed in blood-drenched clothes, with cold, haunted, soulless eyes that were aimed, accusingly, at Curry. 

Heyes’ mouth felt painfully dry, and his hands rolled into fists, except not quite, because his right hand tightened about the smooth, hard butt of his Schofield. With a spastic jerk, he drew the pistol, bringing it to bore on the advancing specters. 

Billie’s eyes bolted wide open, and his hands rising palm out. “Mister, I ain’t got any beef with you.”

Curry’s blue eyes, slowly, shifted to his partner, and he frowned at the line of sweat he saw trickling down the angles of Heyes’ face. But what caused his gut to pinch was the frightened countenance shrouding his pal’s face and an inner knowledge that Heyes was aiming at something other than Billie, something unseen. 

Then Heyes took a step forward. 

That single step placed him amidst men of their past, really men of Kid’s past. Some Heyes could not fully recall, only where they had been when they were shot down. Those closest raised their grasping, clacking hands toward him, and as they shambled forward, their disjointed movements caused their ragged skin to flap apart, revealing gruesome, twisted, splintered bones. But the ghosts closer to Billie were worse. Their wounds oozed a black cream that reeked of rot while their contorted faces brought to mind the graves they lay in. ‘They are not real,’ a frantic corner of Heyes’ mind bellowed, over and over, like the clattering clang of a fire brigade’s brass bell, and yet, they were almost upon him. 

The fingers of Curry’s left-hand brushed Heyes’ shirt sleeve, “partner?”

Heyes shied away, the corner’s of his mouth tugging down, the rest of his face, smoothing out like silk, until not a line existed in his hard mask, and without a word, he tipped back the hammer of the Schofield. 

Billie gulped, “Mister…” shuffling back. 

“Partner!?”

Heyes’ wide eyes flicked briefly to Curry, and he took another step forward, followed by another, striding straight through the accursed apparitions, which he had come to realize; only he could see. Still, they chilled him to the bone, twisting his insides until he wanted to spill all he had drunk this night out onto the floor.

Billie’s glossy, blue-eyes kept darting from Heyes’ crazed expression to the .45 caliber Schofield’s barrel until he could no longer see it because the hard metal was digging into his chest. “Please, Mister, please, I didn’t mean---.” 

Snatching the Colt from Billie’s holster skid. Stepping off Billie, Heyes threw a look from him to Curry, “Only an imbecile would invite death to stand beside ‘em!” Then he bolted through the batwing doors, leaping from the boardwalk to stand in the street. Once there, he began ejecting the Colt’s cartridges, each one landing in the dirt with a soft thud. Inhaling deeply, Heyes threw the revolver down the street.

Letting out a long breath, Heyes turned to face the orange ball of light slipping below the western skyline of the town. He inhaled deeply again, trying to clear the ghoulish stench of decay from his nostrils while concentrating on shaking whatever that had been in the saloon. When he was jerked backward, his feet becoming entangled, he crashed into Kid Curry. 

“You ‘bout got yourself ran down,” Curry said, pointing to the wheels of a fast-moving wagon spinning by. 

“Oh,” Heyes replied, his gaze drifting toward the crooked batwing doors.

“What the hell happened in there?” Curry asked, jerking a thumb at Snitzler’s Saloon. 

Rubbing a hand down his face, Heyes stepped back up onto the boardwalk, “think I’m ready for bed.”

“It isn’t even dark!?” 

Distractedly, Heyes replied, “yeah,” walking away, “and tomorrow, we’re leaving Wichita.”

“You said this would be a lively town to rest our heels in.”

“Changed my mind,” Heyes replied, moving faster, and tugging his hat down, “we’re leaving tomorrow.”

Curry shook his head, “Well, I ain’t tired, so once I see where our room is, I’ll leave you to your rest.”

Heyes stopped.

Curry pulled up. 

Heyes’ dark eyes slanted to his friend taking in Curry’s tight, broad shoulders, thick build, and tight face. Seeing him so close, on the edge of anger, reminded Heyes that the Kid was too big to be bossed around anymore. Still, what he had seen in the saloon had everything inside him screaming that they needed to get out of town and that as Curry’s pal, he should at least try to talk him into not going back out. Licking his lips, he tried to smile, but it fell flat, “Just thinking you should stay in, without me, you’ll get yourself in some difficulty.”

Curry’s mouth formed into a hard frown.

“Kid, I’d just feel better if you stayed in.”

“And, I’d feel better if you told me, what got you all twisted up, back there.”

Heyes’ face pinched, and he looked away, “maybe, tomorrow,” and seeing they were in front of the Southern Hotel, he pushed through its green front door, slapping the brass bell on the counter. 

A tall, matronly woman emerged from behind a curtained door, “Can I help you?”

“Like a room, preferably one that looks out over the street.”

“Two dollars,” she stated, pulling a key from the hook and spinning the register to be signed. 

Digging out the fee, Heyes laid them on the counter, signing Joshua R. Reynolds. 

Reading his name, as he wrote it, she smiled, “Mr. Reynolds, check out is at ten.”

He nodded, taking the key and passing her a wane smile. 

When Curry moved to follow, she snapped, “Sir,” tapping the register, “city requires we keep track of who stays.”

Taking up the pen, Curry, dipped it in the inkwell, scribbling on the next empty line. 

The hotel clerk’s small eyes watched Heyes drag himself up the stairs, and hearing Curry set the pen down, she automatically spun the register back to herself. Only to frown at his cramped writing, “what does this say?”

“Thaddeus James.”

Her eyes lifted to the sound of Heyes’ boots clumping along the upper hall, “Well, Mr. James, he feelin’ all right seems a bit pale. I don’t want no illness here.”

“He’s fine, Ma’am, just a bit over-tired.”

She frowned, deep lines appearing between her brows.

“Promise, Ma’am, he is in prime health,” and touching his fingers to the brim of his hat, he hurried after his friend. By the time he reached the room, Heyes was sitting on a bed, staring at the floor. 

“You sure, you don’t want to talk?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Now, Heyes—“

Heyes’ head snapped up, “leave me be, Kid.” 

Recognizing the look, Curry held up his hands backing from the room, “I’ll check on you later.”

“Do what you want.”

Exhaling out a sigh, Curry shut the door and locking it, placed the key in his vest pocket.


	3. Tomorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After ghosts unsettle Heyes' he just wants to get clear of the situation, but the morning displays a whole 'nother kind of surprise...for both of them 
> 
> Destiny’s Cycle is set during Heyes and Curry’s outlaw days.  
> It tracks their lives, their rise to notoriety and how, at times Lady Luck misuses them. 
> 
> Each chapter is a mystery to me, as I do not think ahead, but write each one using the fanfic forums monthly challenge. (As I write, I would say it is for General Audiences, but since, I do not know where it is going in the future, I chose the Teen and Up rating to be safe.) I hope you enjoy how they travel Destiny’s wheel, and if you would like to let me know what you think, I would be pleased to hear your feedback.

“Didn’t hear you come in last night.”

“That was my intent, figured you needed the rest. Um, Heyes…”

With his straight razor hovering near his jawline, Heyes peered at Curry in through mirror’s reflection. 

“It’s tomorrow, you want to talk?”

The rasp of the razor, removing the dark stubble, was louder than Heyes’ grunted reply. 

“All right, well, how about you tell me over breakfast?”

No answer.

“Most days, I can’t get you to pipe down, but ever since you spooked that boy, yesterday, you haven’t strung more then a couple words together.”

“And, you’re complaining?”

Kid Curry paused from buckling on his holster, “Don’t feel natural is all.” A smile erupted from Hannibal Heyes, large and real enough, that Kid thought, ‘maybe, he’s coming back to himself.’ 

Stepping from the Hotel, Curry squinted at the bright morning light. The angle of the sun, telling him they had slept later than he thought. 

“You want to grab some food?”

The corners of Curry’s mouth curled up. 

Heyes shook his head, “why do I even ask?”

“Let’s go find that German place,” Curry said, looking first left and then right, trying to recall where they had been told it was. “You figure the food is as good as those guys were sayin’?”

“Why?” Heyes asked, taking the lead. “Do you actually taste what you shovel down?” 

“Funny, Heyes.” Curry snarled, following his pal east along Chicago Avenue. “You recall where they said it was?”

“Other side of the river, and we have to pay a toll to cross the bridge.”

Curry’s mouth twisted to the side and hurrying his step, he grumped, “it better be good then.”

“From all reports, it is, and it's said to have fruit danishes.”

“What’s that?”

“Rolls that are sweet and delicious, according to the drunk peddler, who kept bending all our ears at the poker table, rather than just playing,” Heyes replied, coming to an abrupt halt. 

Curry peered about him, at the muddy alley and on to where the boardwalk restarted on the other side.

Then frowning enough, his lips pursed out, Heyes altered his course out, fussily stepping into the street to ally’s standing water, which he suspected was not water at all. 

Following him, but hearing a racket behind them, Curry threw a look over his shoulder. Spotting a team of horses charging their way, his eyes bulged, and without hesitation, he leapt back onto the walk, dragging his partner after him.

“Damn it, but, you have got to break off snatching hold of me like---“Heyes’ squalled, his words trailing off as his eyes focused beyond Curry’s shoulder. 

“If you—“ 

“Would you look at that!?” Heyes exclaimed, forcibly turning Curry to face the street.

Curry’s mouth popped open. “I never seen anything like it.” 

Quickly giving up on trying to count how many saloon girls were crammed in the wagons that were barreling by, Heyes leaned into his pal, asking in a low voice, “You think their running ‘em out of town?”

Half under his breath, Curry replied, “Lord, I hope not.” Then, with a grin, he peeked to his partner, who wore a smile that had completely taken over his face. “They can’t be. Let’s see what’s happening.”

Nodding in agreement, they hopped back into the street, joining the crowd of cowboys trotting after the wagons. 

As the toll bridge loomed up before the wagons, the drivers veered their teams south along the banks of the Arkansas River, and before they were hardly stopped, saloon girls were leaping to the muddy ground. The whole passel of them laughing as if they knew the best joke in the West while flinging their clothing, piece by piece, into the wagon boxes, to a rising chorus of hooted cheers. 

Curry’s blue eyes widened, darting from one bare body to another, “Uhm, Heyes, am I seein’, what I think, I’m seein’?”

“If you’re seeing ladies stripping to their skin…” Heyes elbowed Curry, his dimples creasing deeply into his face, “Then we’re seeing the same thing.”

As they stood goggling, a man wearing a blue plaid jacket strolled close, “You want to place a bet, Sonny?”

Tearing his gaze from the naked women, Heyes yipped, “a bet???”

“Yep! Anything you like… who’ll finish first, last, most out of breath, most covered in mud… you think it up, and I’m sure others will join you on the bet.”

“We just arrived in Wichita yesterday. What is going on?”

“Why, by golly, it be the Running of the Doves. See, once they has plucked off all their feathers, the Doves will line up, and when the signal be gave, the race will begin. The finish line be the front porch of Rowdy Joe’s place. Now, you wanna bet or not?”

“Think I’ll pass,” Heyes answered.

“What about him?”

Heyes nudged his partner. 

“Uh, hum… what?” Curry squeaked, his eyes never moving from the giggling, jiggling women.

“Don’t think his minds on betting, thanks anyway.”

With a loud chortle, the man popped Heyes on the shoulder, calling, “maybe, next race,” as he moved on.

Startled, Heyes blurted, “next race!?!?” 

But the man was rushed away by the jostling crowd.

“Heyes, wouldn’t you think this was all, well…” 

“Unlawful?!”

“Yeah.”

“Always herd mining towns and cow towns don’t always follow de rigueur Victorian etiquette.”

“What?”

“Never mind.” Heyes pointed to how the men were creating a corridor, “figure we best choose a side of the street.”

As they elbowed themselves a place, a bull of a man with flaming red hair and a smartly curled handlebar mustache wearing an expensive, garish suit stepped into the open corridor, holding up his hands. “Top o’ the mornin’ to y’all. Now, if’n ya happen to be new to our Peerless Princess of the Plains, I’m Rowdy Joe Lowe, proprietor of the biggest damn saloon in Delano, and I gotta say, I’m damn glad to see y’all out here. Furthermore, I suspect y’all are damn glad you’re here, too. However, I still want to thank y’all fro coming out for the Running of the Doves. Weather permitting, our Doves have been racin’ along Chicago Avenue, since the spring of ’72.” He pointed east across the river, “much to the peevish annoyance, of all those uppity bastards, who got their nose up in the air, over there.”

A long-legged glided over, draping her arm about Joe’s rounded shoulders, her bare body curving and bulging in all the right places as she settled against him. 

“Now boys, this little filly here is Amazin’ Grace, and she is our most frequent winner, hope y’all bet accordingly.” 

With a teasing, laughing smile, Amazin’ Grace spun in a circle, and Joe popped her plump backside, “best get to the line, toots.”

She let go a bawdy giggle, and dashed to the starting line, shoving a smaller brunette out of the way. 

After a bit of shoving, and screeching from the women, Joe called, “Y’all Doves ready?” 

A chorus of squeals and yahoos rose up from both the doves and cowboys alike. 

Jumping up on one of the wagons, Rowdy Joe raised a nickel-plated Colt, high above his head, and pulled the trigger.

The women took off in a bouncing, shoving, shrieking rush of flesh.

The cowboys trotting alongside, urging them on; until only Heyes, Curry, and a handful of other dumbstruck, new arrivals to Wichita, were left behind with their mouths hanging open. 

Exhaling so hard his lips flapped, Heyes said, “Well, hell, I believe, I can say, I’ve seen the elephant.”

“That you have, Sonny.” The blue vested gambler chuckled, “that you have, so you gonna bet on the next race.”

“When does the next one begin?”

“Ain’t you the eager one.” The man slapped Heyes on the back, “Didn’t ya hear, Joe? Doves only run on Sundays.”

Curry looked around the man to his partner, “We’re not still leavin’ are we?”


	4. Under the Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They have left Wichita, but have they.....
> 
> Destiny’s Cycle is set during Heyes and Curry’s outlaw days.  
> It tracks their lives, their rise to notoriety and how, at times Lady Luck misuses them. 
> 
> Each chapter is a mystery to me, as I do not think ahead, but write each one using the fanfic forums monthly challenge. (As I write, I would say it is for General Audiences, but since, I do not know where it is going in the future, I chose the Teen and Up rating to be safe.) I hope you enjoy how they travel Destiny’s wheel, and if you would like to let me know what you think, I would be pleased to hear your feedback.

Heart-shaped, jagged-edged leaves the color of green apples stirred in the hot wind sounding like a distant running creek. The tree’s thick, twisted limbs stretched out at odd angles, having grown battling the prairie wind. Luckily the leaves dense canopy created a black pool of shade that crept ever eastward. 

From where he lay under the tree, watching the flickering movement of the leaves, Kid Curry heard the brush of fabric against fabric, and the trace of a smile flitted across Curry’s face, knowing the watch had been checked and returned to its inside pocket. “So, what time is it… now?”

“Four, we’ve been here—“

“Six hours,” Curry’s blue eyes trailed to his best friend and on to the others sitting in the shade. “Told you we should have stayed ‘till Sunday.”

Hannibal Heyes’ dimples dipped, and with a frown, he leaned closer, hissing, “didn’t like how determined Billie Boy was to earn a name off you.”

“I can handle myself.”

“Yeah, but, what if he decided not to play by the rules.”

Curry sat up, scootching closer to his partner, “there’s rules to gunfighting?”

“Of course, there are.”

“Stop looking at me that way. You full well know what I mean.”

A low chuckle rolled from Curry, “Not sure I do. Why don’t you explain ‘em?”

Heyes’ mouth settled into a flat line, and he was on his feet. 

“What are you doing?”

“Taking a walk.”

“Steer clear of that fireman; I didn’t care for how he was watching you earlier.”

Pulling his black hat down snug, Heyes nodded, but his eyes still slanted to the engine the trainmen were laboriously disassembling, and Curry could see downright curiosity in his pal’s face.

“He was studying you like your name was on the tip of his tongue, and he couldn’t quite catch hold of it.”

Heyes’ attention remained fixed.

“Don’t go inviting trouble.”

Finally, there was a slight nod, accompanied by an even slighter slump to the Heyes’ shoulders. 

The muscles that were tightening along Curry’s spine eased, and plucking a strand of seed grass, he chewed it as he watched Heyes follow his shadow, stretching out long and black in front of him. 

“Your friend oughta stay put and conserve his strength.”

Curry turned to face the old-timer, who had spoken, “been telling him the same for years.”

“How many walks, he planning to take?”

Curry shrugged, “He gets nervy when there’s nothing to do.”

“Had me a younger brother like that. Times were he would wear me out just watching him.”

Curry nodded. 

“William Barton,” the man said, extending his arthritic, veined hand to Curry. 

Shaking the man’s hand, Curry responded, “James.”

“That your family name?” Barton asked, his eyes, buried behind a nest of wrinkles, slanting to the Colt strapped to Curry’s thigh, “Hoping your first name isn’t Jesse.”

A genuine rumbling laugh rolled from Curry, “No, its Thaddeus.”

“Never heard of a Thaddeus James.”

“That’d be because; I haven’t done anything worth hearing.”

“Well, you’re still young.”

“What do you mean?”

“A man should leave a mark on this world.” William Barton answered, looking harder at Curry, “you got the look of a man who has sand.” He waved a hand toward the western horizon, “Once you get out there, you’ll make your mark.”

“Suppose so.” Curry, absently, twirled the strand of grass he had been chewing on, “course first, Union Pacific, over there, needs to get us all heading that way again.”

“Patience, Thaddeus, I have seen these trains break down plenty of times.” 

“Oh, I got patience. It’s him, I’m worried about.” Curry said, nodding toward his partner standing stock still a fair distance away, and as he did, his blue eyes squinted. “Well, look at that.” He chortled, climbing to his feet, for beyond Heyes, he could make out black smoke against the horizon, “appears to be another train coming.”

All around him, the hot, hungry, frustrated passengers released mutterings of relief, climbing to their feet. 

Looking down with a huge smile, Curry extended a hand to Barton.

“Fine, where I’m at.” Barton nodded toward the stalled train. “It’ll be a while yet. This new crew will join in with our crew first.”

“How do you know that?” 

“Well, I used to work for them.”

Curry swallowed hard, “you did.”

“Yup, I was a survey man. You could say the mark I have left behind was laying the trail for these rails to follow.”

“You don’t say.” 

“Came out here when the Indians were still wild and the land untamed. Come back down here, Thaddeus, you're giving me a crick in my neck.”

Grinning, Curry dropped into a squat, but took a look back at his partner, catching him just as he raised his hat in salute to the passing engine. 

In response, the belching engine whistled, its high-pitched wail spreading out across the emptiness. 

After two hours, even more of the stalled engine was spread along the rail bed. 

Tired of sitting, of the clanking noise, of hearing how the West used to be from Barton, Heyes uncoiled from the ground and removing his hat, he ran a hand back through his hair, studying the collection of Union Pacific men dissecting the locomotive. “Hey, Mister Barton, what if they can’t fix it?”

“They can’t, or they would have already done so. Right now, they all are trying to decipher what needs to be brought out here to fix that old girl. Once that is done, they’ll load us up…” He pointed toward the new train, “and reverse back to Wichita.”

A snort exploded from Curry, “you don’t say.”

Heyes threw a look to Curry and pivoted on his heel. 

“Must be time for another walk.”

“Like I said, Mr. Barton, he gets nervy.”

“Yup, like that brother of mine.”

“If you were a survey man, what did he become?”

“Gerald, he got himself shot dead. Always poking his nose in where people did not want it. Told him that, too. Didn’t do me, or him any good.”

Curry’s eyes shifted to his partner, standing with his hands on his hips, just outside of the work area of the Union Pacific crew.


	5. Fragile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rope that connects the pair of them is pulled taunt, near to breaking......
> 
> Destiny’s Cycle is set during Heyes and Curry’s outlaw days.   
> It tracks their lives, their rise to notoriety and how, at times Lady Luck misuses them. 
> 
> Each chapter is a mystery to me, as I do not think ahead, but write each one using the fanfic forums monthly challenge. (As I write, I would say it is for General Audiences, but since, I do not know where it is going in the future, I chose the Teen and Up rating to be safe.) I hope you enjoy how they travel Destiny’s wheel, and if you would like to let me know what you think, I would be pleased to hear your feedback.

Stepping from the train, Heyes rubbed at the scrabble of whiskers darkening his jaw, “I can’t believe we’re back here.”

“Could be worse.”

The dimple appeared. However, the smile accompanying it was not friendly, and Heyes strode briskly across the depot platform, passing the other weary, returning travelers, he hit the station’s side door with an open palm and slammed up against the red wood door.

Behind him, he heard a snorted laugh, “appears to be locked.”

Turning around, he pointed a smile at Curry that was even less friendly than the earlier one, “thanks for the insight.” 

Shrugging, Curry jigged a thumb toward the front of the building, where most of the other passengers were milling and mewing about. 

Hitching up his holster, his shoulders crowding about his ears Heyes, marched that way utterly ignoring the playful glint sparking across his partner face, which flared into a full-blown smile when they saw the shuttered windows and a sign leaning against the station house’s front. 

Whatever you want to ask.  
We have no answer.  
Come back tomorrow.

“We could stay ‘till Sunday.”

“We’re not staying ‘till Sunday. I have plans!”

Leaning closer, Curry muttered, “You could change ‘em.”

Heyes coolly appraised his partner, and without replying, he trotted down the steps. Only to pause at the street corner, the skin across his shoulders pulling tight as he looked east and west at the lights of Wichita. ‘We shouldn’t be here. Can’t put it into words for Kid; just know we shouldn’t be here.’ 

“Let’s get a room, a bath, and see about dinner.”

Exhaling heavily, knowing there was no other option, Heyes fell into step behind his partner, their boots clumping hollowly along the boardwalk as they headed for the Delano district. 

By the time they exited the Drover Hotel’s dining room, the carnival that was Wichita’s night was in full swing with brass bands were competitively whooping it up, hollering hack drivers, sideshow blowhards barking for attention, dogs yipping, and of course, all the saloon doors were braced open with gaily attired prairie nymphs dangling from their porches. Over all the chaos was the jangle of piano playing and the constant call of Keno numbers issuing from the gambling dens. 

The bath, fresh clothes, and full stomach had mollified Heyes some, and now, strolling amidst Wichitans, Texas cowboys, Mexican ranchman, Union soldiers, and even a few blanket wrapped Indians, he found his self enjoying the sights and sounds of the wild debauchery. 

As they edged down a full portion of the boardwalk, a peacock green gloved hand landed upon Curry’s shoulder, calling, “Why, Sugar, holds up.”  
Curry turned to a well-rouged blonde, batting her eyes at him, thinking, ‘not on my life, you’re old enough to be my Mother.’ But, keeping his thoughts to himself, he merely touched a finger to his hat brim and kept moving. 

“Now, don’t be that way, Sugar. I could share secrets with you, you ain’t never thought of.”

At this, Heyes half-turned flashing his dimpled smile, and a laugh. 

“Well, my, my, my, that offer goes double for you, Darling.” She chortled, opening her wrapper, revealing ample, milky white breasts. 

Swallowing hard, Heyes hastened his step, following his partner as he ducked around the corner. 

A few doors down, they stepped into a brightly lit dance hall, and Curry elbowed Heyes, pointing to the bartender. “Look, its Joe from the Dove race.”

“You can’t seem to get them races off your mind,” Heyes said, looking his pal straight in the face. “Can you?”

“Well, when will we ever see something like that again?”

“I agree, Kid. But there is more to life than carnal delights.”

Curry’s brows bunched tight, “what?!”

Heyes’ smile expanded.

“There are times, Heyes, I feel like flattening you, for no other reason than it would feel good.”

Leaning closer, Heyes’ expression carried a distinct twist of mischief, “Is that so?”

“Yeah, but I tell myself it’d just make you harder to live with.”

The smile broke into a laugh, “Yes. Yes, it would at that.” Laughing more, he threw an arm about Curry’s shoulders, “come on, let me buy you a drink, maybe more.”

They were on their third beers, backs against the gleaming mahogany bar watching the high kicking gals on stage, faro dealers running games, with all of it keeping time to the clatter of the Keno tumblers, whirling wheel of fortune, and the steady patter of the poker tables. 

“Know what, Heyes?”

“Hum.”

“You were right about one thing--”

Heyes turned unblinking eyes on his pal, “only one?”

Curry quirked him a grin, “Wichita is a lively place.”

No sooner were these words out of his mouth than the roar of a gun blasted through the room. A cancan gal screamed, and clutching her middle she collapsed to the floor, with her tiered multi-colored skirt spraying out like a wilted flower. 

A sudden silence filled the frozen room, then the big-bore rifle, Joe had snagged from under the bar, erupted like a cannon. 

Near the front doors, a large man with long, curly red hair, and an astoundingly long beard staggered, and Rowdy Joe’s place turned into the Battle of Gettysburg. Blue cordite smoke filling every nook and cranny to roll into the street through the front doors and shattered windows when as suddenly as it began, it was over. 

Amazed, he had not caught any lead, Curry looked to his partner, who like himself, had his pistol in his hand. Although Heyes’ left hand still grasped what remained of his beer mug, and seeing this, Curry’s eyes opened wider. “Damn, that was close.”

Heyes looked to where Curry was pointing, and inhaling sharp, he released his hold on the jagged, glass handle. “Let’s get out of here before the law shows up.”

This appeared to be the mindset of most everyone, for there was a bustling, groaning herd shoving their ways through the front doors. Seeing others escaping through the shattered windowpanes, Curry and Heyes followed their lead, rushing down the street away from Joe’s.

The night air felt fresh and clean after the smoke-filled heat of the saloon, and when they stopped, Heyes grabbed Curry by the shoulders, exclaiming, “You ever think how fragile life is, Kid?”

“Not really,” Kid replied. 

“Like what if that bullet had found me instead of my mug?”

Curry frowned, sure right down to his bones, this was not a conversation he wanted to have. 

“Hey, Old Man!”

Curry jerked free, spinning and standing not ten feet away was Billie, a Colt hanging from his narrow hips, and Curry’s pupils shrank, the muscles about his blue eyes tightening. 

“Been keepin’ an eye out for ya, Old Man.”

“Well, here, I am.”

“Kid, no!”

The words, “back off,” emerged from Curry’s throat as a deep growl, for the gunfighter side of him knew this was it. There would be no false start this time; Billie had hunted him down for a purpose. 

Then Billie’s cheek twitched, as did his hand. 

Curry did not feel himself go for his revolver; there were too many hours of practice behind the move. Drawing had become a part of him, no different from taking a stride. All he knew was, yet again, he had won the race. Not that he was thinking that, at the moment, those thoughts always came later, followed by the knowledge that one day, he would not win the race. 

As Billie jerked back, an errant dart of flame blossomed from his pistol, even as he drifted to the ground. 

Stalking forward, Curry noted his shot had destroyed the boy’s shoulder and retrieving the large Navy revolver from Billie’s outflung hand, he stuck it in his waistband. 

Several of Billy’s pals came rushing up. 

Swinging, Curry leveled on them, and their hands flew up, all of them yipping, how they did not want any trouble.

“Then, get him to a Doc before he bleeds to death.”

Furtively, they gathered up Billie, shuffling on down the street. 

Once they were well on their way, Curry refilled his empty chamber, and holstered his Colt, raising his eyes to his own pal. 

Heyes was tottering in the street like a child, then he released a convulsive gasp his hand slipping from his chest, it revealed a scarlet stain spreading across his shirtfront.

All sound and movement disappeared for Curry as absolutely everything in him centered on his partner. Then a gasp, nearly as loud as Heyes escaped him because as Heyes began to fall, he felt the rope that connected them pull taunt, near to breaking. And, he knew Heyes had been correct; life was fragile.


	6. The Wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Due to Billie's mistake they are trapped in Wichita.....
> 
> Destiny’s Cycle is set during Heyes and Curry’s outlaw days.  
> It tracks their lives, their rise to notoriety and how, at times Lady Luck misuses them. 
> 
> Each chapter is a mystery to me, as I do not think ahead, but write each one using the fanfic forums monthly challenge. (As I write, I would say it is for General Audiences, but since, I do not know where it is going in the future, I chose the Teen and Up rating to be safe.) I hope you enjoy how they travel Destiny’s wheel, and if you would like to let me know what you think, I would be pleased to hear your feedback.

As Curry squared off to fight, Heyes held his breath, fully aware, as he was every time, in seconds, his life could be altered forever. Then a flat stab of flame was reaching for Billie, the rowdy was bucking backward, dirt kicking from beneath his boot heels.

Releasing his pent up air Heyes took a step toward his partner. Except it felt like a firebrand had landed on his chest. He looked down, and a frown tugged at his face, unable to comprehend the red stain on his shirt front. Thinking to ask his partner, Heyes looked up to find Curry’s face slack and unusually white under Delano’s gaudy, glaring gaslights.

Swallowing hard, Heyes thought, ‘why do the lights look so bright.’ Then he twisted, and was staring at the stars above, with his hands splayed out, digging into the sandy dirt of the street feeling like he was sinking in dark, cold… no, not cold… frigid water. With a gasping cough, he gulped for air, and blood filled his mouth. ‘No..!’ He dug at his burning chest, trying to swallow the blood. The bright stars began to fade. ‘No! I didn’t get to…………’ 

It was dark, but Heyes realized he could smell dirt, sweat, and most overwhelmingly, blood. ‘Why can’t I see? I need to see…I need to see. Fear pulsed through him, enwrapping him like a heavy blanket, and as it wrapped tighter, he saw a flicker of light in the blackness; with all he had, he pushed toward the light.

All he could think was,‘Where am I?’ His eyes felt like they moved of their own accord, and about him was a room he did not recognize. ‘Where am I??’ Then he felt the pain, it grew becoming monstrous, ‘haven’t ever hurt like this before.’ The darkness was returning, he felt himself sinking into it, ‘No!’ Clenching his teeth, he inhaled through his nostrils, gritting out, “Kid!?”

Curry appeared over him.

‘He looks frantic. What’s happened?’

“Joshua… I’m here with _a doctor_ … you hear me, _Joshua_.”

Heyes blinked repeatedly, thinking, ‘why can’t I get enough air to speak? It all hurts so much. My throat feels dry as a desert floor.’

Placing his hands on Heyes’ shoulder, Curry leaned in close, “you can’t breathe because your lung is deflated.”

‘What’s he mean, my lung is deflated?!’ Heyes thought, wanting to prove otherwise, he struggled to breathe, filling the room with a rasping gurgle.

From somewhere, a gravely, stern voice snapped, “Settle him the hell down. His blood is spewing from him like a gorge in spring rain.”

“Hold still,” Curry ordered, turning Heyes’ face to him, “look at me, Joshua, I need you to settle down.”

Heyes’ eyes narrowed, ‘I cannot feel myself moving? Oh, Lord, my chest burns….so much pain, I want it to stop…stop.”

Leaning in closer, Curry’s softly hissed, “Hannibal, can you hear me?”

Hearing his name, Heyes’ dark eyes darted to his pal, and he jerkily nodded.

Nodding back, Curry flicked his overly bright, worried eyes away, and following them, Heyes saw a stranger standing over him. He was an older man, there was blood on his hands, and his grizzled, white hair stood out at all angles in the golden, lamplight.

“You see, the Doc?” Curry asked, his eyes coming back to Heyes. “He says, you’re moving is making you bleed more. You have to lie still.”

Heyes’ eyes narrowed, and he took a breath to speak, but doing so caused his whole body to jerk.

“Damn it, settle him.” The Doctor barked, “can’t have him bucking around like that.”

Putting his mouth beside Heyes’ ear, Curry whispered. “Han, I know you're scared, know it ‘cause I would be, but I need you to think on a bank heist plan, just get lost in some plan, and drift off, like you do on me.”

Closing his eyes, Heyes thought, ‘lost track of the times, Kid has chewed on me for dropping too deep into my thoughts, or drifting off as he calls it. His lectures have always included how I wouldn’t manage to stay alive without him, and every time I’ve told him, I didn’t know what he was talking about that I could do just fine on my own. Truth is…’ Heyes stared up at Curry standing guard over him, ‘…truth is….his alertness, dependability, steadiness, caution…allows me to let my mind wander, and for the first time ever, he is asking me to….but, can’t the pain is too much.’

“This sides clean, put your hand right here,” the Doctor instructed, and Heyes watched Curry reach out, then felt the warmth of his hand, and a spreading agony as he applied pressure.

With a nod, the Doctor sad, “Good, just like that, now let’s turn him on his side.”

When they did, Heyes found himself nose to nose with Curry, who was keeping steady pressure on the chest wound. ‘There are lines grooved in Kid’s face that somehow match how I feel, and the fear in his eyes, tells me how bad off I am.’ 

“He’s a lucky man,” the Doctor grunted, “slug came on out his back.”

Heyes’ eyes flicked to Curry, who gave him a tight smile.

‘Wish I could smile back, let him know I’m not feeling so lucky, not with blood leaking out of my mouth, and all this pain. Damn, I haven’t ever felt anything like this.’ Exhaling softly, Heyes felt the darkness coming back, and this time reached for it.

Feeling his partner going lax in his grip, Curry slapped his cheek, “don’t be giving up on me.”

The dark eyes sluggishly opened, but when Heyes tried to answer all, that came out was a gargled cough, that brought on another cough, and another, with Heyes skin growing paler. 

“Joshua! Joshua!”

“He passing out is for the best. Leave him be, there ain’t much that hurts more than a deflated lung.” The doctor said, bending to take a closer look as he dug at Heyes’ back, muttering, “So, I been told.”

Next, Heyes woke; the room was being bathed with the gentle, gray light of dawn. Blinking, he took a hesitant breath, ‘Most of the pain is gone, and I don’t feel like I’m drowning anymore.’ Turning his head, he searched for Curry and spotted him standing at the window. For a time, he studied his partner’s slumped windows until it came to him, Curry’s forehead was resting against the glass. Taking another breath, Heyes softly, called, “Hey.”

Curry spun, “Heyes,” with a smile that was a thing to behold, like a child at Christmas, or maybe more like a man who had seen a beautiful woman. “You made it!!”

Then it came to Heyes, ‘it was the smile of seeing someone you love survive,’ and with this realization, he returned the largest smile he could muster, “I step in front of a stampede, I was unaware of?”

“You go on and joke, I’ve been praying all night.”

“You… praying?”

The way Curry’s face tightened let Heyes know he had hit a nerve, and he thought, ‘how would I feel if it had been him lying here all night.’ Quirking out another grin, Heyes softly said, “got myself shot, didn’t I.”

“That damn boy pulled the trigger as he went down.” Curry walked over to the bed, “Here, I didn’t want to kill ‘em, and he nearly did you in.”

“What the Doc say?”

“That the bullet went straight through your lunk, just missing your heart, and if you made it through the night, and if infection doesn’t get you, you will be able to get out of this bed in eight weeks or so.”

“Eight weeks?!”

“Afraid so.”

Heyes’ eyes angled away, ‘I should feel grateful, but, hellfire, _eight weeks_.’

“I know, partner.”

“Suppose I could write my memoirs.”

“Your what?” Curry responded, straddling the chair near the bed and dropping on it.

“Nevermind, we got bigger problems.”

“Bigger than me being shot through the lung?”

“Yeah.” Draping his arms across the chair’s curved back, he dug his chin into his wrist, looking sheepish. “Used up about all our money for this room and paying the Doctor.” His mouth twisted into a sickly grin, “even gave the Doc your pistol as part of the payment.”

Heyes’ dark brows bunched, wanting to say several rather harsh words one the subject of his pistol being gone, but instead, chose to keep them to himself, knowing every one of them would start an argument.

\------ASJ-----------ASJ-----------ASJ-----------ASJ-----

“So, you get the job?”

“Went to the address you found in the paper.”

“And?”

“That blame fool is hiring men to build a brick wall, all the way, around his land.”

“Why does it sound like you didn’t take the job?”

“Cause, you know I didn’t. Building a brick wall is awfully hard on the back. I’ll find something on my own tomorrow.”

As the day's drug by, Curry would return each night with Heyes’ dinner, a copy of the Wichita Eagle newspaper, and tales of his labors. Except on this particular night, he came dragging into the room as if returning from a ten-mile forced march.

Setting his book aside, Heyes grinned brightly, “Good seeing you not covered in paint.”

Curry dug up a returning smile, “I would never have taken that last job if I had known, how many walls Mrs. Murdock wanted painted. Swear, my shoulder is never going to be the same.”

“So, what did you do today,” Heyes asked, opening a dinner pail, and seeing Curry had swung by the Chinese district, beamed up at his pal.

“Heard tell, Mr. Jabara was hiring men to stock his new mercantile. It’s on the other side of the river, and Heyes, you would not believe how big that building is.” Curry answered, flopping on his bed with a groan. “Spent the day, climbing up and down a ladder, stocking every shelf along the east wall.”

“You going to have to find another job tomorrow?”

“No,” Curry growled, rolling on his side with a frown for Heyes. “I still have the west wall to do.”

Heyes nodded, ‘Kid sure does seem to be having a terrible time finding a job that agrees with him. At least, he doesn’t have to keep flat on his back.’ Heyes shoved another mouthful of chow in, ‘hell, his trials sound wonderful compared to spending another damn day staring at these four walls.’ Having finished his dinner, Heyes set the pail aside, “want to play cards?”

Curry frowned, but seeing the eagerness in his partner’s face replied, “just a few rounds, got to be back at Jabara’s in the morning.”

Another day had drug by for Heyes, and as the shadows began stretching across the room, he felt his excitement building, so by the time he heard the key in the lock, he felt like cheering. “Sure, good to see you, Kid. Tell me everything you’ve done and seen today.”

“Don’t start on me, Heyes. I been talked at all I need today.”

“What?”

“I took a job with Mr. O’Lawery that you saw in the paper,” Curry replied dryly, handing Heyes a dinner plate.

“Oh, he’s the one building a house.”

“Yep, and we framed walls today and, I don’t think he stopped talking to even take a breath. Not once.”

“Oh.” Heyes sniffed at the yellow potato salad stuck to his fork. “You going to keep working for him?”

“Not sure,” Curry replied, pulling off his boots, letting them hit the floor with heavy thuds.

“Hmm?”

Stripping out of his clothes, Curry glanced at Heyes, his nose wrinkling, “he’s paying pretty good. Just don’t know if I can put up with all his jabbering.”

Heyes moved the salad about on his plate, “You think you're going come back, wanting silence every night?”

Rubbing a hand across his face, Curry responded, “might.”

Heyes nodded, then looked Curry straight in the eyes, “Way I see it, Kid, I’m not so sure building a house suits you.”

For a full breath, Curry looked down his nose at his partner, then collapsed into his bed, staring at the water-stained ceiling. “You sure it’s 'cause it don’t suit me or, ‘cause me wanting silence don’t suit you?”

When he did not receive an answer, Curry propped his arm behind his head, looking across at his partner, and huffed out a sigh. “You look like a cat licking cream, stop smilin’ at me that way.”

“You going to find a different job?”

“Ain’t decided, eat your dinner, and let me be. “

Heyes studied the remains of his dinner, hearing Curry moving, he watched him crawl under the blankets, close his eyes, even as he tucked his arm up behind his head. Exhaling heavily, Heyes, thought, ‘great, only three more weeks.’


	7. Wrong Envelope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite Curry's efforts they don't have enough money to get away, but Heyes has a plan.....
> 
> Destiny’s Cycle is set during Heyes and Curry’s outlaw days.  
> It tracks their lives, their rise to notoriety and how, at times Lady Luck misuses them. 
> 
> Each chapter is a mystery to me, as I do not think ahead, but write each one using the fanfic forums monthly challenge. (As I write, I would say it is for General Audiences, but since, I do not know where it is going in the future, I chose the Teen and Up rating to be safe.) I hope you enjoy how they travel Destiny’s wheel, and if you would like to let me know what you think, I would be pleased to hear your feedback.

Waking Heyes glanced about the room, his angled face tight and pale from the endless weeks of healing. Rolling from the bed, he hobbled to the window to stare for a time at the nightly carnival of decadence, kicking up on the streets of Delano.

As he leaned against the frame, he thought, ‘I’m ready to travel,’ with this thought his fingertips ran over the round scar in his chest, then turning back to the room, he lit the lamp, and returned to bed. ‘Wonder when Kid will return,” the corner of his mouth turned down. Then with a shrug, he picked up his book, disappearing inside. Sometime later, a part of him heard the key in the lock, and knowing who it was, he kept reading.

Entering with a sandwich wrapped in butcher paper and a large, speckled blue metal cup of coffee, Curry strode across the room wearing a jubilant smile, “you ready to travel?”

Heyes barely glanced up, but the arched eyebrow spoke volumes to anyone who knew him.

“I’m not ribbing you, Heyes.”

Dryly Heyes asked, “Why did you come into a windfall? Or, maybe you robbed one of the four banks while you were out.”

Irritation simmered in Curry’s blue eyes. “No,” he responded, setting the coffee and sandwich on the table by Heyes. “Swear every time I read that book’s name, my stomach clenches. Why would you read such a thing?”

Marking his page, Heyes turned the book so he could read the cover, _Crime and Punishment,_ he shrugged, setting it aside, saying, “ _It would be interesting to know what men are most afraid of._ ”

“And, I would find it more interesting if you’d break off quoting that book to me.”

The dimpled grin, finally, appeared. “So tell me, how have you determined we are to escape Wichita? I am ready to travel, but don’t think I’m stout enough to add horse thief to my punishment list.”

Glancing to the thick book lying on the calico bedspread, Curry rolled his eyes. However, his good humor returned with a full, boyish smile, and with showmanship flare, he removed an envelope from the interior pocket of his vest. “We are fixing to make Wichita a part of our past,” he boasted, tossing the envelope to Heyes. “Not only did I get paid for the loading Chisholm’s mule train, but the head driver threw in a pair of train tickets to Denver for my exemplary work.”

Hannibal Heyes’ released a hoot of joy, tearing the envelope open. Except when he looked inside, a deep crease appeared between his brows.

Having bent to undo his holster’s tie-down strap, Curry did not see his partner’s reaction.

Pulling a letter out, Heyes’ eyes narrowed as he scanned the elegant penmanship, his nose wrinkled tightly, and he looked again in the envelope.

Having hung his holster the chair next to his bed, Curry shucked off his shirt, heading for the washbasin. 

Releasing a throaty cough, Heyes dropped into a smooth orator’s voice: “My dearest, I am not sure if this will reach you, as I have mailed several letters to the address you provided, and hitherto I have not received a reply. Still, I shall endeavor, for I miss you so greatly that I ache. I fathom we were together for such a sweet, heady amount of time, yet in those heady, few days, you carved your name upon my heart. Your tender, gentle ways, despite all you have seen, and worse, endured; continues to astound me. How can you be so resilient? So kind? I am sure you will think me foolish; however, I retain the lock of hair you allowed me to cut. I keep it pressed in the pages of a book, so no one will see it _except me_. If only I could gaze again into your lovely blue eyes….my dearest, please write if you can. Even a roughly torn, scrap of paper with your name upon it would mean the world to me. I remain yours forever….”

Rubbing a towel through his wet curls, Curry laughed, “didn’t figure that book you’re reading was a love story.” An oily grin emerged, “wait ‘till I tell the boys what you like reading.” Tossing the towel across the footboard of his bed, he took a seat, jerking at his boot. “Humpf, learn something new every day.”

“Why, yes, you do.” Heyes tilted his head, quirking out a lopsided grin. “Did you ever send her a scrap of paper with your dear name on it?”

“What?” Curry grunted, pulling off the second boot.

“When, and exactly where was this short…” Heyes glanced at the paper in his hand, “oh, yes, _heady_ time?”

Straightening, Curry asked, “What are you going on about?” Standing, he scrunched his face at his partner, unbuttoning his dirty, faded brown pants.

“This, _my dearest_ …” Heyes shook the letter, “sure don’t look like train tickets.”

What was happening finally struck home, and leaping across the room, Curry snatched up the envelope, looking inside, just as Heyes had already done, earlier. “This ain’t right?!”

“You can sure say that again, and you’re supposed to be _so kind,_ and here you’re yanking’ me about with the temptations of leaving. Meanwhile, you’ve gone and broken this poor gal’s heart.”

Seizing the letter, Curry’s eyes scrolled over it.

In a tone dripping with acid sarcasm, Heyes asked, “What? You think I skipped reading any part of it to you?”

“This isn’t my letter.”

“Sure, blue eyes.”

“It’s not!!”

With a snort, Heyes plucked up the sandwich, unwrapping it, “one thing I can tell you...” he took a bite, and around the mouthful, said, “... it isn’t train tickets.”

“He gave me the wrong envelope.”

“That’s the excuse you’re going with.” Heyes rolled his eyes, taking another bite of the roast beef sandwich.

“I’m telling you, it’s the wrong envelope!”

“Like I’m supposed to believe you, Don Juan.”

“What?”

Swallowing down his bite, Heyes’ eyes sparkled, “He was a seducer of women, left them broken-hearted and longing for him.”

“Heyes, it was supposed to be tickets to Denver…not a letter.” Curry crossed his arms across his bare chest, his eyes bunching tighter together as he stated each word strong and clear, “It is the wrong envelope.”

Heyes ran his tongue across his teeth, and then a hand across his mouth, “Are you telling me, you never looked in the envelope?”

Curry became sheepish, “didn’t see a reason to.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Kid, to see if it contained what you had labored for.”

“I trusted him.”

“You rob banks and trains for a living. . . .and, you trusted him.”

Curry snapped back, “Well, not everyone is as larcenous as you, Heyes.”

“ _He is a man of intelligence, but to act sensibly, intelligence is not enough_.”

“There you go with _that book_ again.” Curry snarled, a scowl darkening his boyish looks.

Heyes’ mouth twisted, pinching tight, the bridge of his nose developing definite wrinkles and breath by breath, his face became hard and cold as a winter gravestone.

Exhaling heavily, Curry plopped in the armchair, “I’m sorry, all right.”

With a growl, Heyes rubbed at his face.

“What do you want me to say, Heyes?”

Looking up, Heyes revealed an evil grin, “How about you go into the details on how your tender, gentle ways carved your name on her heart.”

“It was the WRONG ENVELOPE… it is not my letter!!!”

The wicked grin expanded into a double dimpled smile, “how much have we got?”

Exhaling his anger, Curry mumbled, “Six dollars and thirty-two cents.”

“That include your rainy-day stash?”

Corner of Curry’s mouth raised, “Nine dollars and thirty-two cents.”

“And you spent the twenty in my hat?” Heyes said, ticking it off the list with an arch of his brow, already knowing Curry would reply yes.

Peeking over, Curry mumbled, “Uh, Heyes, I forgot you kept funds there.”

“Ah _... but to act sensibly_.”

“You keep quoting that book, and I’m gonna shoot you myself.”

Pointing to his own empty holster rolled up, atop the dresser, Heyes responded, “Not like I could defend myself. If you had used the twenty, you wouldn’t have needed to sell my revolver.”

Curry looked twice as sheepish.

Taking up, the now, mostly cold cup of coffee, Heyes downed it in a few gulps before swinging his legs off the bed. “We got twenty-nine dollars and thirty-two cents, get dressed.”

“What?”

Heyes pulled on his boots with a girn, “get dressed.”

“Why am I getting re-dressed?”

“We are going shopping for a game.”

“Not sure about that.”

“Well, I am. _When reason fails, the devil helps._ Besides, hasn’t enough bad happened to us in Wichita for a lifetime?”

In less than then minutes, they were out in the hurly-burly night. The first point Heyes noticed was the lack of scantily clad women on the sporting house porches. Yet, it was not surprising, for with the setting of the sun, the fall air had become crisp enough to have their breaths puffing out in clouds, as they walked.

For the next hour, they ducked in and out of gambling establishments, purchasing short beers and drinking them slow, as Heyes studied the tables. Finally, he turned to Curry, “that’s the one, over near the stairs. The player’s attire says they have an abundance of banknotes, and their lack of skill says I will be transferring their funds to our pockets.”

“You think you can play it close enough that we’ll be able to buy tickets.”

“I think I can play it close enough that we’ll be buying tickets and a whole lot more. But, I haven’t got an iron…” Heyes patted the shiny spot on his pant leg where his holster skid usually rode, “So I’m relying all on you, tonight, partner.”

“You expect trouble?” Curry looked to the table, noting fancy shooting rigs on two of the players.

“To not expect it, would be foolish,” Heyes responded, slugging back the remainder of his beer. “Especially the way I’m planning on skinning them.”


	8. Formula for Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heyes is making a choice that Curry does Not agree with.....
> 
> Destiny’s Cycle is set during Heyes and Curry’s outlaw days.  
> It tracks their lives, their rise to notoriety and how, at times Lady Luck misuses them. 
> 
> Each chapter is a mystery to me, as I do not think ahead, but write each one using the fanfic forums monthly challenge. (As I write, I would say it is for General Audiences, but since, I do not know where it is going in the future, I chose the Teen and Up rating to be safe.) I hope you enjoy how they travel Destiny’s wheel, and if you would like to let me know what you think, I would be pleased to hear your feedback.

Lifting it a second time, Heyes extended his arm with his dimple appearing, “How much?”

The fastidiously dressed clerk cast a quizzical glance from Heyes to the cantankerous looking man at his side, before saying, “only twenty.”

A frown creased Curry’s face, “too much, isn’t worth it.”

Heyes grin twisted sideways, “we been over this.”

“Still, stand by what I said.”

“You usually do.” Heyes responded, returning his attention to the clerk, “I’ll take it.”

With a bullish grunt, Curry walked over to look out the front window.

Peeling bills from their bankroll Heyes laid them on the counter before pulling his holster from his saddlebag. 

Hearing him, Curry came all but stomping back, “Unload your loops that Schofield uses Smith and Wesson cartridges.”

The slightest wrinkle appeared along the bridge of Heyes’ nose, and he throwing several coins on the counter, he barked, “Hey! Fetch a box of S&W .45s.” and proceeded to shove rounds from his cartridge belt. 

Picking up on the slight flexing of the muscles along Heyes’ jaw, Curry grinned, “Didn’t realize it used different rounds, huh? You could always buy a Colt.”

“Told you, I liked the feel of the Schofield when we were in Fort Worth.”

“Yeah, and I said, you had a perfectly good Colt strapped to your side.”

Heyes looked over, and Curry could read the outright mocking in his eyes, easier than the trail of a wounded stag as he placidly said, “You mean the perfectly good Colt I had, ‘till someone up and sold it.”

Placing the box on the counter and sweeping up the coins, the clerk looked from one man to the other, stating, “thank you for your purchase,” and scurried to the far side of the store. 

Opening the box, Heyes set to ramming brass into his cartridge loops, and as he did, he saw his partner cross his arms. Not wishing to endure the look he knew was being laid on him, he purposely angled his back to Curry. Strapping his rig on, Heyes dropped five cartridges into the pistol and snapped it closed, with a grin, holstering his new weapon.

“You would think by now, I would have figured out why you feel the need to be so hard-headed.”

Heyes reply was a tossed scowl as he walked by, swinging the door open, leaving Curry behind to step into the stunningly, bright morning sun. Hitching his holster up and tugging his hat low, he turned right. When a shadow stretched out beside him, he knew who it was and picked up his pace toward the livery stable. 

“Still, think that damn Scholfield is a poor decision.”

One corner of Heyes’ mouth hitched, and then exhaling, he cheerfully said, “Hey, Kid, way you were growling around back there, you sure had that clerk scooting about on eggshells.”

“Stop trying the change the subject. I want you to listen to me.”

Spinning and tipping his hat back, Heyes placed his hands on his hips, “Fine! Say your piece.”

Curry’s lips pursed and exhaling, he hitched his thumbs in his holster belt. “Schofields are unreliable, they tend to jam.” 

“I've seen Colts jam. Besides, I like the pistol’s feel, its quick-loading, and…” Heyes raised his chin, a smugness coming to his face. “It is my firearm, not yours.”

“Still, it is not reliable.”

Rolling his head, Heyes took off walking. “What do I care? I have you, thats all the reliability I need.”

Staying where he was for a heartbeat or two, Curry trying to hold on to his frustration, but a huffing laugh escaped, and with a shake of his head, he began walking. “Someday, you may not have me there, and it could be right when that thing jams, or blows part of your hand off.”

“Someday you won’t be there, at the exact time, my pistol fails.” Heyes chortled darkly, “sure, glad you don’t use them sort of odds figuring a poker game.” He looked over at his partner, who did not look amused. “I’ll let you pick the horses.”

Curry shook his head, and as he opened his mouth, Heyes cut him off, saying, “Drop it! You already know you aren’t getting anywhere.”

“Yeah, I do.” Kid Curry scratched at the side of his face. “Still, surprised at how much you pulled in last night. Kept seeing you raking in those pots and felt like luck was on our side, for once.”

“Keep telling you, it isn’t luck.” Heyes looked over, “there is a formula for everything, and I know the formula for poker.”

“If that is so, why don’t you use it more often?”

Heyes slid to a stop, leaning toward his partner to hiss, “Because I’m an outlaw, not a hustler.”

“What?”

“The formula includes finding players who are too dumb to realize they are playing out of their depths. Then I befriend them and lead them out to drown. It all makes me feel like a thief when I’m done.”

“But, you are a thief.”

A tightness came to Heyes’ face, and he swallowed. 

“You’re serious.”

Heyes looked down. 

“You’re really serious?!”

“I built them, men, up, making them believe they couldn’t lose, and then took it all from them. That is why I never stayed in one game for too long. I couldn’t let them catch on to what I was doing.”

Curry shook his head, “long as we been together, and I still learn new things about you.”

“Suppose I’m an enigma.”

“No, you're just my pain in the backside cousin with a large vocabulary.” Knocking Heyes on the shoulder, Curry set to walking again, “and, I am choosing the horses, holding you to that.”

Trotting to catch up, Heyes dropped an arm about his cousin’s shoulders, “I meant, I would let you choose yours, not mine.”

“Not what you said.”

“Now, Kid….” 

As they trailed past the blacksmith shop teasing one another, a man of about forty with a heavy gold watch chain across his vest that had a bear claw hanging from it, stepped more into the street. His icy eyes watching them all the way by, and a smile coming to his face that pulled the scar on his chin tight as he muttered, “Well, now, that could biblically change my whole day.”


	9. Finders Keepers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their fame has caught up with them, can they figure out how to escape it.....
> 
> Destiny’s Cycle is set during Heyes and Curry’s outlaw days.   
> It tracks their lives, their rise to notoriety and how, at times Lady Luck misuses them. 
> 
> Each chapter is a mystery to me, as I do not think ahead, but write each one using the fanfic forums monthly challenge. (As I write, I would say it is for General Audiences, but since, I do not know where it is going in the future, I chose the Teen and Up rating to be safe.) I hope you enjoy how they travel Destiny’s wheel, and if you would like to let me know what you think, I would be pleased to hear your feedback.

The river snaked westward with willows and thick, barked cottonwood trees clinging to its crumbling, flood-ravaged banks, in its center small, sandy humped back islands covered in rich vegetation appeared randomly. Spreading away from the river, grass grew tall, becoming a never-ending whispering brown sea, that made the land appear flat, mile after mile of flat boredom.

However, a full day’s ride had revealed this to be untrue, for, beneath the grass, the land rolled, giving way to vast basins and sharp crevices. The unrelenting roots of the prairie grasses had forced their between lumpy, jagged slabs of limestone erupting from the soil amidst the camouflaged, gaping burrows created by the creatures of the plains.

“Little tricky at times, but a nice area,” Heyes said busily searching the flickering cottonwood leaves, to finally find the brown speckled, golden-breasted bird, singing. “Hey, Kid, you recall how the meadowlarks would….” His words trailed away.

His words caused them both to drop back to their boyhoods when the inquisitive birds would perch on the fence posts about their homes, watching them with quick, little twists of their heads as they sang their bright, warbling song. Swallowing hard, Curry softly replied, “I remember.”

“Apologies,” Heyes responded, looking from the sluggish, flowing river, “still, it is a nice area to ride through.”

Curry gave him a quick smile of acceptance, “figured it would be, and we’re going to follow it all the way across the Colorado line.”

“You study a map somewhere?”

“Nope. Talked with a gentleman named Mead, said he used to do some big buffalo hunts out here, and knew the land well.”

“Hmpf,” was the grunted answer, they both knew Heyes preferred maps and doing his own research to another’s words.

“I know, but Mr. Mead was well spoken of by plenty back in Wichita, and he told me going this way, we would not be without water on the open prairie; also we could restock at the lil’ burgs that have been cropping up alongside the Arkan _sas_ River.”

Heyes drolly piped back, “Arkan _saw_ River, Kid.”

“Nope, I meant Arkan _sas_. I was about town enough to figure out that is what the folks called it.”

Heyes frowned over at his pal.

“What?”

“We are no longer from around here.”

Curry shoved his hat back a bit, “anyway, I asked Mr. Mead about it, and he good-naturedly told me, everyone has pronounced it that way since ‘the War’ ‘cause it flows through Kansas first, and they figure it to be _OurKansas_ River, no matter what the Rebs had to say about it.”

One dark eyebrow lifted, “That so.”

Curry nodded, “since the locals feel that way, thought it might be better to say it like them.”

“Might at that.”

The river had bent back on itself, and at the point of the bend, several large cottonwoods were bunched together, their massive roots rolling out across the ground like slack, circus tent ropes. Automatically, they guided their horses more toward the prairie, not wanting to catch a shoe on the twisted, thick bark. Leaving the shade, Curry reached up, tugging his hat down low to shield his pale eyes.

“Go on and raise that other hand while you’re at it. You do the same, Heyes.”

They froze, their eyes slanted to each other.

“This here double-aught does not care what you do, ‘cause this close, it’s bound to do more than wing you, no matter what you blame well try.”

Both outlaws hands reached skywards and shifting in his saddle to get a look, Heyes said, “Sir, I do--” 

Except he was cut off, “Uh Huh! Do not be movin’ none!”

Heyes stilled, his face becoming even stiller, his dark eyes narrowing.

“I got ‘em, Harold.” The unknown voice said, almost as jubilantly as a child who knows he has achieved his goal. “It is safe for you and rest of the boys to come on across.”

Four riders emerged from the other side of the river; the lead rider wore a had once been an excellent cut, broadcloth suit. Except now, it had the shine of being worn nearly thin. The man smiled widely as his horse splashed across the low river, the riders surrounding him, having all their pistols pointed at Curry and Heyes.

The swaying bear claw attached to the watch chain stretched across the man’s rounded belly, glinted, catching Heyes’ eye, and the corner of his mouth dipped his dimple becoming prominent right. Then with a soft snort, he burst into a congenial, charming smile, “Harold MacKeefe, good to see you.”

“You are supremely correct, Heyes,” Harold responded, touching a finger to the brim of his flat hat. “Now go on and reach over with your left hand and toss the Kid’s pistol aside.”

“What’s this all about?”

“Not recalling, giving you permission to jabber, simply do as instructed.”

Hannibal Heyes’ jaw tensed, his nostrils flaring and leaning out, he grasped the Peacemaker’s smooth, wood handle.

Harold raised his voice, “Heyes! Do not be forgetting, both your posters have illustriously labeled you, both, as dead or alive.”

With a sigh, Heyes flicked his wrist, the pistol twisted in the air to land before their horses.

As he was doing this, a man, with a face as pockmarked as a bad road, snagged the newly purchased Schofield, and smiling smugly, he walked out retrieving the Colt.

“Well done, Mitchell.”

At the praise, Mitchell swung round to Harold, smiling like a hound dog being offered a bone.

“Very well done, go on and bring me that jewelry.”

Loping over, Mitchell handed up the shiny six-shooters, and Harold patted him on the shoulder, slipping the pistols in his waist belt. “Now, you two reach on back and grab hold of your cantles.”

All softness disappeared from Curry’s face, and when he reached back, his wrists were, promptly and fiercely, tied with a rawhide thong. Heyes did the same, but not before, straightening his hat and tightening the stampede strings to hold it in place.

“Always was one to buck an order, any way you could, weren’t you Heyes… just anyway you could.” Harold MacKeefe stated with a shake of his head. “Walter, it would be best if’n you used two rawhides to tie him, Heyes there can be slippery as a wet snake.”

His patience, already, thoroughly exhausted and the pinching of the ever-tightening thongs on his wrists, doing little to improve his humor, Heyes snarled. “What the hell is all this about, Harold?”

“Why it is what it is always about,” Harold replied, placing his folded hands atop his belly, “turning a profit.”

Curry looked fast to his partner, but Heyes, having decided Harold intended to use him to open a mail car safe, was trying to get a better read on the man, “Last time we spoke, you said you were done robbing trains.”

“Still am,” Harold said, waving a hand toward the sea of grass, “it is far easier to perpetuate heists out there. Most travelers tend not to fight back like them hired guards the trains have incorporated.”

Realization settled in, and Heyes inhaled deep, enough to make his almost healed lung pinch.

“I see my plans just became apparent to you.”

Under his breath, Curry asked, “Heyes, what’s going on?”

Heyes’ tongue flicked across his lower lip, and he tightly replied, “Harold over there, intends to turn us in for the profit of our rewards.”

Curry’s blue eyes turned sharp as a winter sky, his gaze sliding to Harold MacKeefe.

“Well, now, I am right glad, I have your guard dog leashed, Heyes; he looks like he has some bite to him.”

Curry’s shoulders tightened, the muscled cords of his neck standing out rigid.

“Easy, Kid,” Heyes said, really almost cooed knowing behind Harold’s amiable, smiling attitude rested an every ready cut-throat killer.

Walter looked from one outlaw to the other and with a hearty laugh, hitched their horses up behind his own and a sullen-looking man’s wide-hipped bay.

They had been towed across the prairie for hours, with Harold’s gang keeping them beyond reasonable distance apart. Sitting atop the sloping ridgeline, where the lead riders had paused to await the others, Heyes noted his pal’s skin was pinked up like a strawberry on a vine in the open sun.

“Harold, favor?”

The bushy-bearded man rode closer, “What could you possibly desire, Heyes?”

“Like to say, for you to release us, but certain that isn’t a favor you’d be willing to grant.”

“You are quite precise in your assumption,” Harold chirped through a gloating smile. “See this here is a finders keepers situation, and I plan on keeping you both until you pay off.” He scratched at his beard, “And, I mean that. I will keep hold of both of you, even if you force my hand, and my boys are required to slice your throats. Although, I do hope it doesn’t come to that, as it wouldn’t take long for you both to start stinking in this sun.”

Heyes’ lips pursed tight, then he forced out a smile, “speaking of the sun, my favor is… could one of your boys set Kid’s hat back on, cause he is broiling under it.”

Harold’s eyes drifted to Curry, who was sullenly glaring at the ground, the back of his neck a proverbial beet red, “Anthony, see to it.”

A burly, farmhand looking man, in a rough homespun shirt, rode over and grabbing the brown hat from Curry’s back, he set it atop his head. Then, with a grin, he slid the stampede knot tight. However, having suspected this, Curry had flexed his neck and jaw, so when released, the knot was not gagging him.

Turning his horse, Harold looked pointedly at Heyes.

With a smile as menacing as wolverine advancing from his den Heyes said, “Thank you, Harold.”


	10. Canada

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How far do they have to run to escape danger......
> 
> Destiny’s Cycle is set during Heyes and Curry’s outlaw days.   
> It tracks their lives, their rise to notoriety and how, at times Lady Luck misuses them. 
> 
> Each chapter is a mystery to me, as I do not think ahead, but write each one using the fanfic forums monthly challenge. (As I write, I would say it is for General Audiences, but since, I do not know where it is going in the future, I chose the Teen and Up rating to be safe.) I hope you enjoy how they travel Destiny’s wheel, and if you would like to let me know what you think, I would be pleased to hear your feedback.

“This really isn’t necessary.”

With a chuckle, Harold MacKeefe snapped the shackle closed, “I am keeping you right close ‘till you pay off.”

“Didn’t think you meant I got to be your bedroll pal each night.” Heyes grumped, edging as far from Harold as the chain connecting them allowed.

“If I did otherwise, the pair of you would take off north, so fast… well, you might overshoot Wyoming and not pull up ‘till you were standing in Canada.”

Tucking an arm under his head, Heyes’ dark eyes went to Curry, who was for the fourth night being roped to a tree and forced to sleep upright. His expression vividly detailing how wearisome, he was of such arrangements.

Dawn arrived bright and clear, and when Heyes sat up, he swept a hand across the brittle, dry ground, and he thought, ‘that is odd for Autumn, no dew, it’s fixing to be one hellishly hot day.’

Climbing aboard their horses, he and Curry caught one another’s eyes and the look they passed, reaffirmed, ‘whatever move you make, I will back you.’

They were traveling, nearly, the same route Kid Curry had planned for them, although the shaded trails along the Arkansas River had faded away to the windswept, stoic beauty of the plains. Not that they had been noticing much of it, as their thoughts were overwhelmed with the desire to escape.

The difficulty was each morning their hands were tied behind their backs, and their horses ponied to another mount. Furthermore, they were not even allowed to ride alongside one another. No, Harold had them well in hand, and thusly, they had not been able to share more than a few words, and none of those private.

The heat rose with the sun, and the group plodded on in silence. Harold’s gang tired of each other’s company and Heyes simply not allowed to talk; a full day’s cycle of wearing a gag had convinced him of the seriousness of this maxim.

It was not even noon yet, and the horses were sweating as wetly as the men upon them were. When they topped the basin, they had been riding across, there was a jewel blue band blanketing the far horizon.

“What you think, Boss?” Mitchell asked, his eyes traveling across the darkening, stripe.

“Do not be worrying any; it is a good ways off,” Harold replied with definite certainty.

Having been born to the plains, Heyes and Curry both knew, the storm was not as far off as Harold believed. They warily looked left and right, in perfect unison, and, other than the rolling grass, there was nothing else in sight.

Frowning, Heyes noticed Curry, up ahead of him, shift in his saddle, driving his boots deeper in his stirrups and agreeing with him, did the same.

They rode on, the deep band had gained patches of brilliant turquoise green, and the top looked like foaming waves on a moonlit sea.

Walter coughed, sounding loud as a train whistle in the eerie silence. “That storm starts movin’ this here way, I ain’t stayin’ in my saddle to be fried by lightning.” 

Harold MacKeefe’s head turned like a snake to Walter, “You will do as you are told, or you will forfeit your share.”

Walter twisted his reins, grumbled under his breath, and hipped his speckled mare into a trot, removing himself from MacKeefe’s fierce glare. He happened to be the one, ponying Heyes’ sorrel, and Walter’s dodging his leader had brought Heyes up alongside Curry.

Even from the corner of his eye, Heyes could read the tension in his partner. They had faced a fair share of severe storms over the years, yet, nowhere did one compare to the unfettered ferocity of a plains blowup.

The heat had the horses huffing, and their hooves slipped on the greasy, buffalo grass as the slope became steeper, leaning forward in their saddles, the men shifting their weight to help their mounts. Cresting the top, a rush of icy, wind hit them, splaying out the horses’ manes and whipping the grass until it hissed like a wild animal.

Gooseflesh spread across Heyes’ body, and twisting he saw Curry’s face was a fixed mask, making others think he was stoic about it all; Heyes knew better. He knew his partner had the same all-overish feeling crawling along his sweat-soaked skin as he did.

The rolling moonlight colored clouds were building, rising, boiling into a towering formation, massive enough for the Gods of this land to take note. Sensing impending wrath in the dark blackness, the horses whickered, their ears flicking back and forth as they twitched and hopped beneath their saddles.

Another howling gust spun Harold’s fancy flat planter’s hat from his head.

Heyes watched it jump and flip from sight, but his eyes widened when he realized the grass it was skittering along was utterly flat to the ground. He rapidly looked all about them, only confirming he was right. The grass about them was smashed out flat like it had been stepped on, and tilting his head back, he peered up at the heavens, at the spinning clouds above them to hoarsely gasp, “Oh, hell!”

Curry too had taken in their dire situation, and much darker curses were slipping from him.

At that moment, blinding forks of light branched out in great arcs, and the spinning clouds began to churn faster; and like a finger from God, a bolt struck, so big and loud, it rattled the group down to their bones. The smell of charred flesh swept back to Heyes, and with a yelp, he took a death grip of his saddle’s cantle, slamming his heels down. His big sorrel took off, ripping free of Walter’s twisting, snorting mare.

Following Heyes’ example, Curry slammed his heels down, and his excited gelding needed little encouragement for the horse was already scared, and now his trail mate was leaving him. In a bunched leap, the big bay bolted, dragging the smaller horse, he was tied to, until the rope snapped.

Another lightning blast struck, and Heyes yipped, shrinking tight to his horse. Yet, when Curry’s bay nosed up, so their horses were running neck and neck, Heyes chanced a look over, wanting to share the joy of freedom only to find his pal’s face painted white with absolute terror.

Looking back, he felt the blood drain from his face, the clouds had succeeded in spinning into a fully formed funnel, and it was howling like the darkest, nightmare beast, pulling, sucking, devouring all it could reach.

When the lightning bolt blasted Harold from his saddle, a jolt of fear had raced through Heyes that one of them might be next. But this twister ravaging the prairie behind them was teaching him fear of the likes he did not know existed. For the very blood, pumping in his veins had become imbued with a burning, numbing fear. 

Curry’s blue eyes caught sight of Heyes’ waxy, pale face, and he could see none of the bravado of his pal who got them out of difficulties, of his cousin who had protected him since they were young, and all he could see was the same cold, sweaty terror that was wrapped about his own heart. It was then some corner of his mind recalled the prayers his Mother would say each night, her words of protection and devotion spoken over him. He could not remember the last time he had said them, and wondered if that might have been a mistake on his behalf, he looked again to Heyes, on both their behalfs.


	11. Crossing the Border

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did they escape, and if so, is vengeance as sweet as they say........
> 
> Destiny’s Cycle is set during Heyes and Curry’s outlaw days.  
> It tracks their lives, their rise to notoriety and how, at times Lady Luck misuses them. 
> 
> Each chapter is a mystery to me, as I do not think ahead, but write each one using the fanfic forums monthly challenge. (As I write, I would say it is for General Audiences, but since, I do not know where it is going in the future, I chose the Teen and Up rating to be safe.) I hope you enjoy how they travel Destiny’s wheel, and if you would like to let me know what you think, I would be pleased to hear your feedback.

Their horses’ bellies were stretched out along the flattened grass as they ran full out into the wind; filled with so much rain, it felt like they were battling a swollen river. Then the hail started, at first it was like grit being blown up from a Tombstone street, but steadily, it increased until marble-size rocks were bruising them. Despite this, each of them felt like cheering. For they knew, they were not only escaping Harold’s plans but the twister, too; as every child of the plains knows, a tornado will suck all the wind to it as it races across the prairie.

As the battering deluge raced away, a bright, beautiful sun appeared, setting the wet prairie to glistening. Heyes and Curry shifted their weight backward, speaking soothingly to their horses, and in less time than either of them thought it would take, the animals fell from their pounding run to a jarring trot, and down to a walk. Even as this was happening, Curry was working on the wet leather binding his hands, and with a rush of brute force, he burst the ties, so suddenly, he about unseated himself when his arms flew apart. Leaning down, he snagged his bay’s dragging rein, “easy boy, whoa.”

Heyes’ sorrel walked nearby and reaching over Curry caught its headstall, and stepping down, he flipped the sorrel’s reins criss-cross over its neck. When he looked up to Heyes, his eyes were brilliant blue against his sun-baked skin. “That really happened, didn’t it?”

“It did. But, it will sound like a hell of a whopper when we retell it.” Heyes replied, shifting his tied hands for Curry to see, “would you mind.” 

Rushing back, Curry began working on the knots, and seeing not a trace of blood about Heyes’ wrists, he growled, “You didn’t even try to free yourself.”

“Saw you were doing a fine job.”

Throwing the ties in the grass, Kid grumped, “there are days, Heyes, there are days.”

With a robust laugh, Heyes stretched, then picking up his reins, said, “Let’s get moving.”

Settling down in his saddle, and seeing Heyes taking off northwest, Curry called, “Wrong way?”

Reining in, Heyes looked around him, then pointed northwest, “No. Wyoming is that way.”

“But we’re going back.”

“BACK!?”

Pointing his horse down their back trail, Kid responded, “Can’t leave them lying out there, possibly wounded.” 

Heyes threw a look to the northwest and back to his partner, “I can.”

Circling back, and around his partner, Curry laid a long appraising look on him.

“Fine, but you lead the way, and don’t forget we’re not armed.”

Ten minutes of walking, they came over a rise to spy three horses grouped tight together, each one dropping its head to take quick, rushed bites of grass.

“Where are the other two?” Kid asked, his eyes scanning the prairie, “and their riders.”

“Figure about now, Harold is explaining his wayward, backstabbing ways to St. Peter.”

Not bothering to halt his search of the grass surrounding them, Curry grunted, “What?”

“The bolt that set everything in motion landed square on Harold MacKeefe.”

At this, Curry did look to his partner, “I heard tell of it happening, often enough, but…” he shook his head, a grin appearing, “suppose that would be what Grandpa used to call just deserts.”

A chuckle rolled from Heyes, “might be at that.”

Keeping on the high side of caution, they meandered their horses down to the others, and sliding down Curry collected the trailing reins. Then passing by the speckled gray, not wanting the shotgun she carried, he removed a rifle from the next horse, possing it up to Heyes, before seizing a Henry, for himself, from the last horse’s rigging.

“Hey,” Heyes pointed to the speckled mare, “your rigs in her saddlebags.”

“Another reason, I like traveling with you.” Curry said, unbuckling the saddlebags, “’cause there ain’t much you ever miss.” Finding his holster, he unrolled it with an excited smile. Once back around his hips, he pulled the Colt checking its loads, before dropping it back in the skid, saying, “Hot damn, that feels better,” his face shining with the truth of his happiness. “So, where’s yours?”

“Harold said he fancied my choice of firearm.”

Curry cringed.

One dark brow cocked up sharply.

“Don’t know if you’ll be getting that back.”

“I will.”

The smile twisted, “why bother, that pistol, ain’t worth worrying about.”

“I think it is.”

Leaping onto his horse, Kid grumbled, “You are just plain out determined to carry a sidearm I frown on.” Laying the rifle across his thighs, he kneed his horse after the pony train, Heyes was leading. “That’s it, ain’t it?” Despite his not answering, Curry knew his partner had heard him, and barked, “Why can’t you concede, you hard-headed mule, I know better here.”

Grinning into his bandana, Heyes gigged the horses into a trot, only pulling them in when they came upon a straight line of ground, rutted like a train had run off its tracks.

Staring open-mouthed at the thirty some rods of plowed land, Curry said, “Looks like it did a touch and jump.”

“Amazing, isn’t it?”

Suddenly the Henry rifle was in Curry’s hands, “Boys, I see you and a pistol, ain’t the only thing I’m accurate with.”

Heyes squinted where his partner was focused, after a breath or two, he whispered, “you really see them?”

Curry squeezed the trigger, bringing forth a startled yowl. “Unless you all want further examples of my accuracy… Stand Up! Drop your weapons, holding your hands as high as you can reach.”

Three of Heyes and Currys, prior captors, rose from the grass, and the one gripping his shoulder, shouted, “Damn it, Kid, you shot me. I can’t raise my arm.”

“You raise it, Walter, or I’ll drop you where you stand, and you won’t need to worry on it no more.”

Urging their horses closer, Curry asked, “where’s Jake?”

Mitchell spoke up, “Jake stuck to his horse when this all turned to hell in a handbasket, but that dog rode off, leaving us afoot.”

Curry nodded, grunting, “Heyes, tie ‘em up.”

Hopping down, Heyes worked his way down the line of men, and when he snagged Walter’s hands, the man whined, “Careful now, that hurts.”

“Sure, it does.”

“Well, show a bit of mercy, Heyes.”

“Like you ever did,” Heyes responded, recalling how tight Walter had bound his hands, a wicked gleam came to his eyes, and he made sure to repay the favor. Then, jerking Walter’s bandana off, Heyes placed it against the wound, using the remaining rawhide to secure it in place.

“I’m gonna bleed out from such lousy bandaging.”

Heyes snapped, “Hush up!” revealing a sharp, twisted grin, “You’re a long way from dying.”

Retrieving the pistols, he shoved them in his saddlebag before turning to eye the lump, rising from the grass, a ways off, “That Harold out there?”

Mitchell nodded, looking truly sad.

“How bad is it?”

Anthony took a step forward, “blackened ‘em some, and ripped his horse up something terrible. He shook his head, “had to shoot that poor animal, it was wobbling around with his head dragging on the ground.”

Mitchell nodded again, and if his hands were free, he most likely would have rubbed at his wet lashes, “it sure did kill Harold though.”

Unconsciously, Heyes touched of his aching bullet wound, eyeing the tied men and their horses beyond. Seeing him do so, Curry called, “cover them for me, Heyes,” and climbing to the ground, he handed off his rifle, hauling and shoving the three men on to their horses. Once all were mounted, Heyes aimed his sorrel for Harold.

“Heyes, damn it, we got plenty of pistols for you to choose from.

Heyes kept on for his target, the Schofield he could see sticking up from Harold’s waistband. Hopping to the ground, with the rifle in hand, he kicked Harold’s boot.

The foot flopped stiffly.

Moving closer, Heyes ground his heel into the man’s outflung hand, adding more and more weight until he was confident Harold was not merely playing possum. Leaning in, Heyes snagged the Schofield and, using its barrel, opened Harold’s vest, allowing him to lift the wallet sitting there.

Seeing the wallet on his return, Anthony grumped, “Never thought of you being one to steal from the dead.”

“You are right there.” Heyes replied, “I’m retrieving my property.” Opening the wallet, he made a show of counting out four-hundred and thirty-two dollars, before letting portfolio fall from his hands

Anthony’s brows bunched as the wind ruffled the bills splaying out of the wallet, before he thought what he wanted to say, Mitchell interrupted him, “What you fixin’ to do with us?”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Heyes answered, leading them northwest, and despite their constant line of questioning, he would not divulge his plans. But, somewhere in the afternoon, he pulled out his journal book and took to writing and chuckling.

After several quizzical glances, Curry finally asked, “What are you up to?”

“Recalling what Grandpa Curry said about just desserts?”

Curry’s eyebrows rose questioningly, but the only answer he got was a playful wink.

The sun was long gone, and it was a dark night on the prairie with a sliver of a moon dangling in the sky. The same smothering darkness blanketed the town of Wano as the group rode in.

“You can’t take us to the law, Heyes.” Anthony grinned, “we’ll rat you out quicker than snot from a cow.”

Stopping by a fat pine tree, Heyes said, “Get down.”

“With our hands tied.”

“You expected the same from Kid and I. Fact is, my ribs still ache from hitting the ground two nights ago,” Heyes answered, pulling the long knife he had taken from Anthony’s boot earlier, “Now get down before I prod you off.”

The three did as told, Walter hitting the ground with a shriek.

“Damn, but if you don’t sound like a stomped on cat.” Heyes teased, pulling the man to his feet. “All of you sit on down with your backs to the tree.”

Seeing what was up, Curry retrieved a lariat from Mitchell’s saddle, and jubilantly, roped the men to the tree, in the same manner, he had been forced to endure since their capture.

While he was doing this, Heyes swiped a spot smooth, carving WANTED in the soil, then using the same blade, he pinned the journal pages he had filled to the ground.

“What’s that?” Walter asked, motioning toward the papers.

“Your names, known crimes, and the States looking for the whole group of you. See this way whoever finds you will keep you for the reward.”

Curry softly, chuckled.

“Now, Heyes, you’re known to be a fair man.” Mitchell said, “You too, Kid.”

“That we are,” Heyes replied. “This…” he waved at them tied to the tree, “is fair turn around, seeing we have heard non-stop how each of you was going to spend _our_ rewards.” Leaning an arm across his partner’s shoulder, Heyes chuffed out a dark sounding laugh, “Only all you will be spending now is time.”

“You leave us like this, Heyes, and we’ll send ‘em after you,” Walter growled.

Standing straighter, Heyes replied, “Go right ahead,” snugging is gloves tighter, he chuckled again, “for once we hit the Arikee Breaks, we’ll be hard to follow.”

“And, with five horses to switch through, we’ll be traveling fast.” Curry put in, tugging his hat down lower. “Makes me feel damn confident about our chances of crossing the Wyoming border before any posse ever lays eyes on us.” Touching a finger to the brim of his hat, Curry swung until the saddle, but before following his partner, who was already trotting off with the line of ponies. He shook his head at the men, “too bad Harold never explained how blood money is bad luck from the moment you start dealing in it.”


	12. Up on the Roof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They have returned to the Devil's Hole but is not how Heyes would have left it................
> 
> Destiny’s Cycle is set during Heyes and Curry’s outlaw days.   
> It tracks their lives, their rise to notoriety and how, at times Lady Luck misuses them. 
> 
> Each chapter is a mystery to me, as I do not think ahead, but write each one using the fanfic forums monthly challenge. (As I write, I would say it is for General Audiences, but since, I do not know where it is going in the future, I chose the Teen and Up rating to be safe.) I hope you enjoy how they travel Destiny’s wheel, and if you would like to let me know what you think, I would be pleased to hear your feedback.

It was an exhausted, dirt-covered pair of outlaws that signaled when they approached the Devil’s Hole Pass. However, when they neared Lookout Rock, a lanky man in a stained, fringed, deerskin shirt appeared leveling a Sharps rifle. “Outsiders ain’t wanted here, go on and turn them horses around!”

The pair of leaders raised their heads in unison, their brows furrowing over narrowed eyes, with several sharp replies coming to Hannibal Heyes’ mind, but before he selected one, Kid Curry said, “Ledford, what are you doing here?”

The man must have been Ledford, because he stepped closer to the edge, squinting with an unsure look.

“You join up with the Devil’s Hole?”

A strange, befuddled look came to the man’s angular face, “Well, now—"

Curry shook his head, “Why are you on watch when you can’t make out anything more than a few rods from you?”

A frown creased Ledford’s face, accenting how underfed he was, “Who the hell are you?”

“Exactly my point,” Curry replied, pushing his hat, so it fell down his back, to dangle on its stampede strings. “Kid Curry.”

“Oh!” came the sharp, surprised exclamation, the frown disappearing, and Ledford lowering the Sharps. “Well, hello, Kid, long time no see. Suppose that ‘d be Heyes with you?”

“It is on both accounts.” Curry looked to his partner and under his breath, said, “Sam Ledford, met him when we were each riding on our own.”

Heyes nodded, his eyes still on the man, “You really as blind as Kid says?”

“See right fine, up close and face to face.”

“So, who put you on Lookout?”

“Wheat says, we are all to have our turn out here on the Rock.”

Heyes’ mouth turned down, his dimples grooving his face when he looked to his partner, “and, you said, he’d be fine to leave in charge.” Kicking his horse, he tugged angrily at the three extra ponies after him.

“Well, Ledford, its good to see you, and I expect you will be replaced out here, right soon,” Curry called, waving to the man, and gigging his horse after his partner.

Coming into Devils Hole, Heyes smiled, despite his anger, ‘feels good to be home.’

The first member of his gang he came across was Kyle, “Howdee Heyes! Mighty good to see you. Is…” the scruffy, small built man, leaned out looking beyond his leader, “yup, there’s, Kid.”

“Good to see you, too, Kyle,” Heyes replied, undallying the horses from his saddle horn. “Would you see to this line?”

“Woo wee, that sure is a pretty lil’ speckled gray.”

“You can have her; she and I are not on the best of terms.”

“Why’s that?”

“Another time.” Heyes grunted, taking off his hat, and shaking his bangs back, he returned the silver-studded black hat to his head, and when he looked to Kyle, his eyes held fierceness, “Where’s Wheat?”

Shifting, Kyle peevishly eyed Heyes, “Wheat in trouble?”

Through gritted teeth, Heyes growled, “Where is he?”

Kyle gulped and then quickly spit a stream of tobacco juice, “Ya only just got back.”

“I comprehend that Kyle, now where is Wheat!?”

Turning toward the hideout, Kyle pointed toward the bunkhouse, “He, Hank, and Lobo is repairin’ shingles.”

Heyes flicked the reins so sharp across his sorrel’s rump, the horse took off with a snort, and when they reached the end of the bunkhouse; Heyes kicked the ladder leaning there to the ground.

Hearing the clatter, Wheat’s head snapped up, “Hank, go see what’s happed.”

“I’d rather speak to you, Wheat Carlson.” Heyes hollered, pulling his Schofield, releasing a shot in the air, that cracked and echoed off the surrounding valley. “Really, I’d like to see all your shining faces.”

Pulling up, a little back from his partner, Curry sighed, removing his right glove, and situating his self ready in the saddle.

Preacher, Merkle, Kane, and Harper came up from the garden patch. Red and Olly emerged from the stable, Kyle meandered closer, Carl and Hardcase walked in from the creek, while a paunchy, dark-haired, older man appeared in the bunkhouse door holding a broom with Hoyle just behind him. And, of course, Wheat, Lobo, and Hank peered down from the roof.

Curry’s eyes moved across the men, keeping count, “Where’s is Shields and Monahan?”

Pushing past the new, unknown gang member, Hoyle said, “They went to town.”

“What’s this all about, Heyes?” Wheat demanded, moving to hook his thumbs on his holster belt, and when he missed, his eyes flicked to the broken tree limb his, Hank, and Lobo’s holsters were hanging, by the corner of the roof.

“I left you in charge, ‘cause you’re always bragging on how smart you are.”

Wheat’s chest started to expand like a Banty rooster, but with a twitch of his mustache, it deflated, “I’m takin’ you ain’t complimenting me.”

“No, I ain’t! What kind of addle brain leaves a blind man on guard?”

Wheat looked to Lobo, who shrugged and then to Hank, who stammered, “Ledford’s blind?”

Coming closer, Kyle put in, “By golly, I ain’t seen ‘em run into nuthin’, he sure does well for a blind man.”

“Kyle, don’t help!” Heyes snapped. “He can’t see distance.”

Wheat replied, “He saw well enough to let you and Kid in.”

Scrunching his shoulders, Heyes went to jerk off his hat, and feeling the weight of his revolver, still in his hand, he raised it toward Wheat.

The three men’s faces, up on the roof, blanched with Hank and Lobo edging from their pal, and Wheat yelping, “Here now, Heyes, we ain’t ARMED!”

“I realize that, and I wouldn’t shoot you, Wheat… well, maybe... no, I wouldn’t shoot you. But, if you were down here, I sure as hell would use this to flatten you.”

Wheat’s Adams’ apple visibly jumped, “Why you so upset?”

“You want to explain it to him, Kid?” Heyes replied, shoving the Schofield in his holster and swinging to the ground.

“Think you’re doing fine, partner.”

“Thanks, Kid.”

In a clipped, cheerful tone, Curry responded, “you’re welcome.” Both his tone and wide smile were not lost on his partner, each of them doing their job of rankling Heyes a bit more.

“Wheat the prime responsibility of a leader…” Heyes gestured to the men around them, “is to watch over his men, to guard them against harm and you… you assigned a man who can’t see distance to Lookout. How in the hell is he to warn of danger, when he can’t tell a posse from Pronghorns passing through… if he can even see that much?”

Running a hand down his sweaty, shirt front, Wheat mumbled, “I see the problem now.”

Heyes snapped, “You do?!” Spreading his legs, he planted his hands on his hips, “Do you really?!?!”

“Yes.”

“What I see, is I made a poor choice, leaving you in charge during my absence,” Heyes shouted, snagging his horse’s reins and turning toward the stable yard. “Olly, go relieve Ledford.”

“Uhm, Heyes, the ladder.”

Flinging a look back, Heyes snarled, “Use your so-called smarts to get down.” His dark eyes slid across his gang members, “and that doesn’t include any of you assisting.” A sinister smile lit up his face when his eyes snapped back to Wheat, “A leader ought to be able to get himself out of a difficulty. So, let us all see you lead Hank and Lobo down.”

Turning his horse after Heyes, Curry hopped down beside him, laughingly asking, “how you going to be sure, he doesn’t get…” Curry nodded toward Kyle, staring up at Wheat, “….or any of the others to help him.”

At his laughter, the muscles around Heyes’ eyes tightened, “that would be why _you are_ going to watch them.”

“Me?”

Heyes nodded, walking on to the stables.

Pacing him, Curry asked, “Why me?”

“Because your Head of Security.”

Curry’s scratched the side of his nose, “you aren’t still holding that river crossing against me?”

“I did say, we could cross further up and avoid the water.”

“I was right, it wasn’t that deep.”

Heyes’ eyes slid snakelike to his partner, “this time, you best keep that laughter I see on your face… inside.”

“Water didn’t hurt you none.”

“Says the man who crossed without a getting wet,” Heyes answered, throwing a hateful glare to the speckled gray horse standing, relaxed, with one leg hitched up. “Damn mare twisted around faster than one of them Wichita Can-Can dancers, and for I could jerk her up, she was down, and rolling in the water like a fat pig.”

A snorting laugh burst past Curry’s lips, but at the look, his partner turned on him, he swallowed it, “think you might be, in a worse mood than before I suggested we take some time off.”

“Can’t imagine why.” Heyes started walking again, “Had myself a swell time in Kansas.” Flipping his reins around a paddock fence, he set to unsaddling his horse. “And, you can also speak with Ledford and that other new one…. figure out if they are worth keeping or not.” Throwing his saddle on the fence, he removed his saddlebags, turning toward the leader’s cabin.

“While I am doing all this, what are you going to do?”

“Finding myself some peace and quiet.


	13. One Man's Trash is Another Man's Treasure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heyes has gotten his self on the wrong side of the Devil's Hole Gang, so naturally, only a Hannibal Heyes plan can fix the situation....or can it............
> 
> Destiny’s Cycle is set during Heyes and Curry’s outlaw days.   
> It tracks their lives, their rise to notoriety and how, at times Lady Luck misuses them. 
> 
> Each chapter is a mystery to me, as I do not think ahead, but write each one using the fanfic forums monthly challenge. (As I write, I would say it is for General Audiences, but since, I do not know where it is going in the future, I chose the Teen and Up rating to be safe.) I hope you enjoy how they travel Destiny’s wheel, and if you would like to let me know what you think, I would be pleased to hear your feedback.

Clad in a clean pair of pants, his bare feet hitched on the porch railing, Heyes looked up from his novel at the sound of Curry’s approach. Shoving a hand back through his damp bangs, he said, “heard a yelp, a bit ago. . .” a mischievous grin expanded, “. . . was that Wheat taking the fast route down?”

Removing his hat, Curry slapped it against his leg, a puff of dust drifting off. “Yup!” Tossing his Stetson into the empty chair, he bent untying his holster strap from his leg, “moved his self off to that tree on the corner of the bunkhouse.” Straightening, he shook his head, “it was touch and go if he was going to make it.” Stepping onto the porch, Curry shrugged out of his vest. “Lost two dollars on it.”

A snort erupted from Heyes, “Because, you bet he would make it?”

“Seemed like a safe bet.” Curry shook his head, “and he did make it to the tree.” Tossing his vest in the chair, he began unbuttoning his blue, sweat crusted shirt. “Anyway, while he was working his way down, he got hung up, and, well, when he twisted ‘bout to get free…” He tossed the shirt atop his vest, putting his hands on his hips “… he slipped…” again, Curry shook his head, except this time there was a touch of sorrow to the move, “if I were you, I’d avoid Wheat for a while.”

Heyes’ right eye squinched up a bit as he peered up at his partner.

“He came down straddle on a limb.”

Heyes brows shot up, his forming a perfect O as he released a soft gasp.

“That is what you heard, then he just kind of toppled out of the tree.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Heyes looked down, “he all right?”

“Took him a while to unball and stagger to his feet,” Curry replied, unbuckling his holster. “I went ahead and set the ladder up for Lobo and Hank.”

“Probably a good idea.”

“Thought so,” Curry said, rolling the holster belt about the skid, a frown settling in his face as he did so. “And, you ought to know the others kind of felt it was your fault.”

“My fault?”

“Yup, so, while I clean up. . .” He stopped, looking pointedly down at his partner, “You did leave freshwater on the boil for me?!”

“Of course, I did,” Heyes responded with a flat, indulgent smile.

“Good. Then, while I bathe, you might keep your guard up.” Curry looked toward the bunkhouse, his hands tightening about the leather he held, “they all like Wheat, and they were grousing pretty good when I left.”

“But, I’m their leader.”

Curry’s blue eyes were flints of ice when they came back to his partner.

Swallowing hard, Heyes pushed out a quick, tight grin, which did little to improve the anger aimed his way; for if there was anyone who could read him it was Kid Curry, and they both knew he had just been caught flat-footed, “I meant _we’re_ _both_ their leaders, Kid, both of us.”

Releasing a snort, Curry answered, “That being, use that brain of yours to figure a way to keep _us_ … on all their good sides.” Stepping forward, he handed his holster rig to Heyes, who did not have a firearm in sight. “But, just in case.”

Heyes’ eyes widened.

“Like I said, just in case, that bunch can be as hard to outguess as a ringtailed raccoon sometimes.”

For a long while, Heyes stared at the closed door his partner had gone through, ‘he can’t really think they might... .’ His gaze fell to the Colt handle emerging from the leather pile in his lap, before drifting out to the far trees, and anyone watching would have said they could see the gears turning as he worked out ideas, twisting them around until they suited him.

______________________________ASJ_________________________________

Riding by the row of saloons, dance halls, and brothels, Curry kept close surveillance on the loud, boisterous arena, a heavy, sternness decorating his youthful face. Although, he was the only one appearing this way, for Heyes and the rest of the Devil’s Hole were all grinning to beat the drum and having a grand time joking with each other. Nudging his horse closer to his partner, as they entered the corral attached to Lottie’s Chicken Ranch, Curry asked, “You really think this will work?”

One of Heyes’ big, wide, smiles appeared, making Curry instantly irritated because he recognized it as one used when his partner considered himself smarter than those around him. So consequently was not surprised when Heyes responded, “Why wouldn’t it?”

Curry’s climbed from his saddle, leading his horse away without a word.

Leaping to the ground, and hurrying after him, Heyes called, “Come on, Kid, have a little faith.”

Placing his horse in a stall, Curry began unsaddling the bay.

Leaning against the edge of the stall, Heyes frowned, “Can you not get behind my plan at all?”

Curry blue eyes turned to Heyes briefly.

“They are being treated to all the drink they can hold, a fine supper, and a calico queen of their choice, and I’m--” Heyes’ tongue darted across his lower lip, “ _we’re_ footing the bill.”

“That is one of the many parts of this plan, I don’t care for.”

Covering his disappointment by leading his horse into the next stall, Heyes asked, “what else is bothering you?”

“How about them getting liquored up while feeling unsure about _your_ leadership.”

“ _My_ _leadership_? We’re in this together.”

“Oh, but they haven’t been talking out of the sides of their mouths about me. . .” Curry tossed his saddle across the railing and pointed at Heyes, “only you.”

Heyes’ face fell, his brown eyes softening with a touch of pain creasing their corners.

It was not the reaction Curry expected. He had figured on another quick, snide remark being flung his way, and stepping out of his stall, he walked over to Heyes as he threw his own saddle across the railing. “Don’t listen to me, Heyes; I’m sure you're correct, and it’ll all work out all right.”

Heyes only nodded, and stepping by, Curry walked on toward the barn door.

Sighing heavily through his nose, Curry watched his partner’s slumped shoulder walk, ‘I forget, beneath all that swaggering confidence of his, Heyes is _still_ a too smart for his own good boy, who wants others to notice him, and more importantly like him.”

______________________________ASJ______________________________

Filling the shot glasses for each member of the gang, Heyes raised his own, “To the best crew to be found in all the West.”

Smiles exploded, and with hurrahs, they threw back their shots, thumping the glasses down for refills.

Smiling so big it was contagious, Heyes walked along the backside of the bar, refilling all their glasses, except Curry’s as he had turned his over. Seeing this, Heyes sharply arched a brow at him.

“Going to stay clear-headed.”

With a chuckle, Heyes refilled his own, raising it, “to jobs that’ll fill pages in the history books.”

The Devil’s Hole cheered again, and he went right back down the line filling their glasses, “Tonight is all on me, and Kid, ‘cause, we felt you men should know you're appreciated. So, to pals worth riding the trail with.”

More toasts were made, all disappearing just as fast as the first, with Heyes topping off glasses, even when he needed to open a second and third bottle, to do so.

Seeing how shiny their faces were becoming, Curry stepped behind the bar, slipping the bottle from his partner’s grasp. “Could let you keep drinking, it’d be less strain on my wallet, but let’s go enjoy that fried chicken dinner and the other extras Lottie’s has to offer.”

With a cheer, the men rushed for the dining hall, where the server’s outfits were made of less cloth than was needed to cover a narrow window.

Heyes thought dropped his forearms on the bartop with his lower lip pouting out, seeing him, Curry clapped a hand about his shoulder. “What?”

“Why’d you do that? They were enjoyin’ themselves.”

“Making them storm drunk is only going to loosen their tongues and maybe, some of their tempers. Let Lottie’s gals do the work of warming them over to you.” Curry responded, hugging his partner’s shoulder warmly. “Being a leader means we don’t have to do all the work.” Steering Heyes from behind the bar, he grinned over at him. “I recall someone teaching me that.”

The dimpled smile was back, a little looser and sloppier than usual from all the rapid-fire whiskey shots, but back, and leaning into Curry, Heyes slurred, “Thanks, you’re the best partner ever, really and truly the best.”

“I already know that.”

“You do??!”

“Yup, ‘cause, I have Hannibal Heyes as my partner.”

The dimpled grin positively engulfed his pal’s face.

“And, that makes me the best partner ever. . . .” Curry squeezed Heyes closer, “because day and night, I get to deal with all of good ol’ notorious Hannibal Heyes eccentricities.”

Heyes tilted his head to the side, looking over from the slant of his eye, “What?”

Curry looked right back over at him, his eyes sparking with humor, “What… what?”

“Who taught you eccentricities?”

“Like I said,” Curry responded with a warm laugh, nudging his partner toward the dining hall while watching his pal’s whiskey-soaked mind try to muddle through what he had just been told, and as he did, Curry laughed even harder.

Stepping into the gaudily, decorated hall its tables covered with food and drink, they were greeted by Kyle hollering, “Heyes, Kid, this is the bestest, most wonderful night of my life.”

Taking in the little brunette perched in Kyle’s lap and the chicken leg gripped in his free hand, the partners shared smiles as wide as the Grand Canyon. Because, all throughout the hall, the beaming expressions of the gang members matched Kyle’s, and it appeared, Heyes’ plan was on the right track.

Before dinner was completed, a button nosed, big-eyed, brunette gal had attached herself to Heyes. As the merriment dispersed to various upstairs rooms, it came to Heyes his own partner was still drinking coffee and chatting with Lottie, who was a good twenty, maybe more, years his elder.

Leaning against the doorframe that led to the stairs, Heyes glanced to the cute little gal tugging on his left hand, to the whiskey bottle in his other, and back to Curry. Clearing his throat, he called, pointing to the stairs with his whiskey bottle “Uh, Kid… is you and….” as his words faded, his eyes darted to Lottie, revealing his unfinished question.

Curry looked quick to Lottie, and took a drink, his eyes darting to the inside of his cup with a touch of pink gracing his cheeks.

The large-chested, tight corseted, redhead laughed heartily, laying a hand on Curry’s arm, “ _Par Dieu,_ does _moi_ not wish. Alas, we are destined to merely remain friends.” Reaching out she patted, Curry’s arm, “It be all right _Chér,_ ” She looked back to Heyes looking somewhat lost, “you go on _beau_ with Betsy. _Moi_ and Kid will enjoy some more talk and _café_ ,” She grinned at Curry, “While he keeps guard over y’all like a shepherd over his bedded down flock. _Bien que_ , _moi_ does not deem much sleepin’ shall be occurin’ in them beds.” Looking to Curry, she asked, “What do you think, _Chér_?”

The pinkness shifted to red, and to avoid answering, Curry took another drink.

“Uh, Kid, you sure?”

Without looking away from his cup, Curry responded, “I’m sure…get! Someone needs to stay alert.”

Taking another pull on his whiskey, Heyes followed Betsy upstairs only to promptly run into Wheat, kissing on a full-figured, blonde in the hallway.

“Howdy, Wheat, all good ‘tween us?” Heyes asked jubilantly, pulling his hand from Betsy and offering it to Wheat.

“Well, now, Heyes, it sure appears to be working out that way.” Wheat answered, pointing at the bottle dangling from his leader’s hand, and with a smile, Heyes passed it over.

Holding it up, Wheat toasted, “to old times.” Then slyly popped his thumb across the bottle's mouth, making a show of taking a long drink before returning it.

Wobbling some on his feet, Heyes flung the whiskey up, swallowing down a good, healthy dose. 

Pulling the bottle back, Wheat toasted, “to old grievances,” and once more faked drinking, before handing the bottle to Heyes.

Heyes’ nose scrunched up, “to old grievances??”

“Yeah, may they be fixed.” Wheat replied, motioning for Heyes to drink on it.

The dark eyes narrowed, but with a shrug, he took another long pull, and when he lowered the bottle, only the smallest bit swirled to the bottom.

Taking the whiskey bottle from his slack hand, Betsy said, “Now, you knock that off Wheat Carlson, or he ain’t gonna be worth a bucket of spit to me.”

A snorted giggle slipped from Heyes, and he had to put a hand on the wall to steady himself.

With a bullish look, Wheat replied, “you mean he is normally.”

With a shake of her head, Betsy latched hold of Heyes, propelling him down the hall and through her bedroom door. But, before she got in, Wheat snagged her, holding her back.

“I gave you a twenty-dollar gold piece; you are planning on upholding your end still, ain’t ya?”

“Of course, I am.” Hearing the thunk of a boot hitting the floor, she peeked in her room at Heyes, who had already flung off his shirt. “You ain’t gonna hurt ‘em. You promised you wouldn’t hurt ‘em none.”

“And I won’t Betsy. I don’t break promises, never have, and never will.”

She nodded, “well, then go on and wait for my whistle.” Having said this, she slipped in, shutting the door after her.

“What you up to, Wheat?”

“Just a bit of payback to our high faultin’ leader,” Wheat replied, looking over his shoulder at the blonde, passing her a wink.

“Don’t ya men, usually, do that by bustin’ in one another’s head or pullin’ iron?”

Wheat made a chirking noise, “You got the right of it there, Hildy. Only, I ain’t wanting to hurt ‘em. Hell, I like Heyes, most days. But, I sure do want to injure that pride of his.”

About that time, a wolf whistle rippled from Betsy’s room.

A smile so huge that Wheat’s teeth were fully visible behind his bushy mustache appeared and latching hold of the doorknob, he burst into the room like a bull buffalo on a rampage. “Hellfire, Heyes, there’s lawdogs swarming in downstairs.” Before him stood a slack-jawed, astounded Hannibal Heyes, as bare as the day he was born, and placing his hands on his leader’s shoulders, who was so drunk, he was most likely seeing double, shoving him toward the window, Wheat hissed, “Kid, ordered me to get you out of here.”

“Out... how?”

“Right here,” Wheat responded, gesturing to the open window.

“But…” Heyes lunged for his pants and about fell down when they resisted his tug, not realizing Betsy was firmly standing on them.

Snatching up the holstered Schofield, hanging on a ladderback chair, Wheat tossed it out the window.

And, Heyes spun watching it go, “that’s my…”

“I know, now get...” Wheat looked desperately back over his shoulder, “I’ll toss your clothes down to you, but how am I supposed to get through that window if’n you don’t move.”

Heyes stammered, “need to get dressed first,” his mind spinning from drink.

There were stomped steps in the hall, and Wheat had to hold back from laughing, knowing Hildy was helping him out. “Come on, Heyes, I was told to get you out first.”

His blood pumping so fast, he could feel it, Heyes placed a leg over the ledge, “but…”

“If you get caught by the law, who’s gonna think up a plan to get Kid out?”

Nodding, Heyes lowered his self until he was hanging from the window sill and taking a breath, dropped to the ground. Struggling to his feet, he cupped his hands about his mouth, drunkenly whispering, “Wheat, my pants, toss my pants down.”

Leaning out the window, Wheat called, “What’s that, I can’t hear you?”

“My pants!” Heyes called more urgently, “and hurry the hell up, so we can go, help Kid.”

“Why? He ain’t havin’ a lick of trouble, only you is.”

“What?”

“There ain’t no law here.”

“What!?!”

“Nope, just us outlaws, now have yourself a pleasant stroll,” and, with a braying laugh, Wheat shut the window.

Staring dumbfounded at the closed window, Heyes felt gooseflesh rise up all across his bare skin, turning to the busy, brightly lit street before Lottie’s he shivered. Picking up his holster, he stared at it, and looking up at the window, he had been tricked through, a barrage of curses bubbled from him, some aimed at Wheat and the rest at his drink addled mind for allowing him to be tricked. When he ran out of sufficient curses, he released a long drawn out sigh and buckled on his gun belt, feeling even more ridiculous, he frowned, shifting the holster to a loincloth position.

Darting along in the darkness, sweating bullets over the possibilities of being seen, relief sprung up in him on spying a sheet flickering in the pale, starlit night. Except, just as he reached to retrieve the sheet, it slid from his grasp, revealing one of Lottie’s gals gathering it into her arms.

He stood frozen.

She stood frozen.

He grinned feebly.

She giggled.

He blushed.

She giggled more, “nice pistol.”

Glancing at his Schofield sticking from his strategically placed holster, he flamed brilliant red from his cheekbones to his collarbones. Leaping forward, he yanked the next clothing items from the line, and wrapping them about himself, made his escape to her rolling laughter.

Now, with his bare back up against the rough, weathered wood of the rear side of the outhouse, he thought, ‘I am going to string Wheat up like one of those piñatas.’ Holding out what he had thieved, he rolled his eyes heavenward, ‘not sure, this is better than being naked.’ With a sorrowful sigh, he climbed in, hitching his holster back around his waist to hold the over-sized clothing in place.

Sober as if a cold bucket had been dumped over him, he soft stepped about the house, swearing each time his tender feet found a sharp rock along the way. But, at least, he had made it without being sighted. Taking a breath, he climbed the wide stairs to Lottie’s front door, and shoving his long bangs from his face, he rang the bell.

The same gal he had met out back answered. Her green eyes glistened from having laughed until she cried, and now they were looking him up and down where he stood in a ragged, over-patched pair of pantaloons that belonged to their cook, Mrs. Rachel, which, in all reality, the old gal should relinquish to the rag bin. They were too short on Heyes and much too large, and his gunbelt was the only thing keeping them from slipping off. Shaking her head, her eyes slid over him once more, from his tousled hair, red cheeks, across the threadbare pantaloons, to his bare feet, and with a snort, she said, “Think I liked you better in just the holster.”

Sliding by her, the tightly replied, “Thanks,” handing her a short chemise with a built-in padded, bust improver.

Through an eruption of laughter, she barely got out, “Oh, you couldn’t make use of it, too?”

Passing her a flat smile that did not reach his eyes, he strode to the dining hall, and when he stepped in, Lottie spat her coffee across the tablecloth just missing hitting Curry.

Spinning in his seat, and coming to his feet with his Colt cocked, Kid Curry froze at the sight of his partner. His brows lifted, his blue eyes widened, but in a perfectly straight voice, he asked, “My goodness, Heyes, was the dress so bad, you had to throw it in the trash?”

Looking to the floor, Heyes considered how he would look standing here only in his holster and decided the pantaloons were actually quite wonderful. Peering up through his bangs, he shrugged, “what is one person’s trash, is another’s treasure.” And, lifting his head to look his partner straight in the eyes, he snarled, “Now, where in the hell is WHEAT?!”


	14. Halloween

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What better trick or treating for the Devil's Hole Gang than a bit of bank robbery......
> 
> Destiny’s Cycle is set during Heyes and Curry’s outlaw days.  
> It tracks their lives, their rise to notoriety and how, at times Lady Luck misuses them. 
> 
> Each chapter is a mystery to me, as I do not think ahead, but write each one using the fanfic forums monthly challenge. (As I write, I would say it is for General Audiences, but since, I do not know where it is going in the future, I chose the Teen and Up rating to be safe.) I hope you enjoy how they travel Destiny’s wheel, and if you would like to let me know what you think, I would be pleased to hear your feedback.

Wheat stepped up to the dark walnut bar braced to the sidewall and plucking a piece of paper, from the cubby above it, made a show of filling it out; while softly conversing with Curry standing beside him.

When the only other customer present appeared done with her business, Curry smiled and with a tip of his hat, stepped through the front door, holding it open for her.

“Why, thank you, young man, what delightful manners your Mother trained into you.”

Bowing his head, Curry replied, “You’re welcome, and thank you, Ma‘am.”

As her black heels clicked off her departure, Heyes walked through the door Curry held open, with Preacher in his shadow.

Looking left and right, Curry stepped in, flipping the sign to closed and followed his partner to the broad, hip-high counter. Before he had reached his partner’s side, Heyes had placed partially filled Treasury Department Certificate through the teller cage.

The thin, freckled clerk behind it barely looked up, his eyes remaining hidden beneath the green visor he wore, “Are you wishing to add stamps to your certificate?”

“In a way,” Heyes replied, the mirth in his voice catching the clerk’s attention, for his head tilted a touch, and setting his pen down, he looked up. His eyes widened, darting to the ratcheting of Preacher’s repeater rifle, the double-click of Wheat’s six-shooter and back to the very, close, very large bore of Curry’s Peacemaker; looking anything but peaceful.

Leaning in, Heyes passed him a wink, “No sudden moves.”

Wheat kicked the door at the end of the counter, the latch splintered, and as the door swung open, Wheat raced in with Heyes following him placidly, stating, “Clear the drawers.”

Clawing into the first drawer, Wheat shoved the currency in his saddlebag.

“Wheat!” Heyes barked from within the open safe, even as he stacked bundles of notes and certificates in his own bags. “Don’t forget the stamps this time.”

“How was I to know we needed them, thought they were for mailing letters.”

Curry smiled, softly saying, his pistol pointed right at the trembling clerk, “Look like a post office to you?”

“No,” was Wheat’s muttered response, grabbing the box full of square, faded orange and blue stamps.

Before he could dump them in his bag, Curry said, “Might want to put ‘em in an envelope.”

Wheat’s mouth pursed tight, but jerking open a lower drawer, he rummaged about removing a brown envelope and tumbled the stamps inside.

“You men have made a grievous mistake. Do you not know, the reason, no one ever even considers robbing Lone Gulch is for the simple fact that we are surrounded by miles and miles of flat nothingness, leaving nowhere to hide from a posse.”

Bumping the man from his drawer, Wheat smiled at him, “Maybe so, but we feel pretty right certain ‘bout ourselves.”

Raising his chin, the clerk belligerently looked Wheat in the eyes, “Well, I for one shall laugh in your face when they drag each of you back here.”

Coming up, Heyes said, “I would invite you to do so…” having buckled the saddlebags, he slung them across his shoulder, “however…” he gestured to a chair, “it will not be happening.”

Stiffly the clerk walked to over, taking a seat, studying the man securing him with rawhide ties from his intelligent dark eyes, to his dimples, to the thick black hair, nearly touching his shoulders, to his gray ranch coat and the pistol tied down to his butternut colored pant leg.

“Get a good solid look?” Heyes asked. “Let me make it easier for you… you tell them it was the Devil’s Hole Gang who visited you.”

The man swallowed, his eyes drifting to Curry, “that means the pair of you are….”

Touching the brim of his brown Stetson with his Colt before holstering it, Curry replied, “Kid Curry.”

Having pushed his hat, so it sat on the back of his head, Heyes wore a brilliant boyish smile, “and Hannibal Heyes.” Then pulling the clerk’s kerchief from his jacket pocket, he flipped and twisted it into a gag, “any last words?”

Looking a shade or two paler, the clerk shook his head.

“Good ‘cause I got a schedule to keep,” Heyes replied, tying the kerchief about the man’s mouth and snagging the keys dangling from his vest.

Strolling over boastfully, Wheat told the man, “As ya can see, we ain’t the brutes they make us out to be in the papers, we’re gentlemen bandits.” Tweaking one end of his mustache, he grinned, “Ya can tell ‘em Wheat Carlson told you so.”

Rolling his eyes, Heyes slipped through the front door, and once all his gang was out, he paused to lock the bank’s entrance, pocketing the keys.

Disappearing into the alley, they slid across and down to the backside of the General Store, where they casually climbed aboard their horses, Lobo was holding.

“Others have instructions to leave town by twos, at a nice, easy-going pace, after you and Lobo are out of sight,” Curry stated, nodding to his partner. “Wheat, and I will bring up the tail, making sure all is safe.”

From the shadowed mouth of the alley, Curry monitored the Devil’s Hole Gang abandonment of Lone Gulch, each kicking up so little dust not even the dogs sunning themselves bothered to raise their heads to watch. When he and Wheat started down the main drag, Wheat twisted in his saddle to check their backtrail.

Low in his throat, Curry snarled, “Don’t do that!”

“What?”

“Look about like you're expecting a reaction.”

Slumping in his saddle, Wheat took on the appearance of the cowhand, saddle tramp he had been before his outlaw days, “better.”

“Much.” Curry passed him a grin, hanging loose and easy on his own horse, “want us looking like nothing more than drifters.”

“Can’t we move any faster?”

“Yep, if we wanted to draw attention, which, I’m not.”

A sigh escaped in a puff of warm breath from Wheat and fiddling with his reins, he glanced at Curry, “Uhm, Kid… uh, Heyes ever talked with you ‘bout that prank I pulled on him.”

Looking over, his face as blank as freshly fallen snow, Curry flatly said, “prank.”

“At Lottie’s.”

“Oh, that…” the corners of Curry’s eyes crinkled, “wouldn’t want to be you.”

Reaching up, Wheat rubbed the back of his neck, “was he pretty sore?”

“Would you be?”

The bushy mustache dipped, its tips making Wheat’s frown look even more profound, “he say anything to you?”

“Why would he?”

“We all know, he confides in you.”

Tugging his hat lower, Curry replied, “not as much as I’d like some days, and if you’re hemming about trying to find out what he’s planning against you.” The smile slipped, coming free, “he’s keeping it closer to him than he did his clothes.”

Any other time, Wheat would have laughed, but he knew Heyes well enough to know this was not a laughing matter, and he once more rubbed of his neck.

“Like I said, wouldn’t want to be you.”

Well beyond the town, they rounded a bend, coming head-on into a line of drawn pistols that were immediately lowered.

“Golly thought y’all might’en been caught.” 

“Riding casual takes time, Kyle.” Wheat replied, tipping his head toward Curry, “specially, when you’re ridin’ with him.”

There were several chortled laughs, as the men knew how serious Curry could be when it came to caution.

Feeling someone watching him, Wheat turned to find Heyes’ black eyes boring into him, and his jocularity dried up.

The tension could be felt, and all eyes went to Heyes, who took time to adjust his hat before saying, “All right boys, tonight we will be covering fifty miles, trade horses at the Villanova Ranch, and cover another fifty, but by then we will be on home ground… so to say.”

“I don’t know,” Lobo stated flatly, shifting in his saddle, “ain’t a one of us who doesn’t know makin’ thirty miles, a day, is doin’ damn good on any hoss.”

“Lobo’s right. What if’n we don’t make it?” Kyle asked, spitting on the ground between him and Hank. “These horses will be done in, and then we all will be caught for sure.”

“It’ll work,” Curry said firmly. “Learned how during a poker game back in Wichita chatting with some Calvary boys.” Leaning forward on his saddle horn, he held up a finger, “first we

walk, then trot, then gallop… each time only for fifteen minutes. They pridefully bragged how a horse can go all day and night like that if you stop and give ‘em a hat full of water every few hours.”

John sucked in his lower lip, looking twice as doleful and pathetic as usual, “sure hope it works.”

“It will.”

Scratching at his reddish beard, Lobo shook his head, “If ‘n it wasn’t ‘gainst my best interest, I’d put money down, we’re going to kill more than a few of these broomtails for were done.”

Buttoning his coat against the night's chill, Curry said, “go on, Heyes, tell ‘em what you always tell me.”

The well-known, brash smile appeared, “come on, Boys, have a little faith.”

The pocket watch chain clacked against the saddle horn, as the Heyes’ watch bobbed along nestled in his hand, until he called, for probably the fifth time that night, “Walk!”

The moon lit their way hanging heavy and full above the tall, brittle grass, even when the night dimmed, becoming purplish, with the horizon behind them absolutely empty, except for the soft blush of impending dawn. 

Whoaing his horse under the ‘rocking V’ brand hanging above the Villanova ranch, Curry wore a full gloating smile for each gang member as they passed by. Their horse’s fur stood out ragged and curly from sweat, and steam rose from them, but not a single animal was baked or gimping. Following them to the corral, he leapt down, feeling proud of himself.

“Knew you were right.” Heyes bragged, popping Curry on the back, a puff of dust rising from his sheepskin coat, and the wide, toothy smile which often led people to believe Curry was younger than he was, appeared.

Exiting the house, a short, thin man with stooped shoulders and suspenders crossed over a faded, red, flannel undershirt, called, “ _Buenos días, Señor_ Heyes. Did not think ya would make it in before the sun, but ya did.”

“Like I tell my men, you need to have a little faith, Hector.”

“Me, I got plenty of faith, but I not spread it out beyond me own _familia_.” Hitching his thumbs in his suspender braces, he looked Heyes in the eye. “But, I should know to have faith in ya, _Señor_ Heyes. Your regular mounts be fed, watered, and rested.” Hector Villanova pointed to the large corral of milling horses, before holding out his weathered, calloused palm. “We shook on $2,000 for keepin’ yours and rentin’ mine.”

Heyes smiled like a cat licking cream, and with a shake of his head, he unbuckled one saddlebag, “you sure ‘bout that price, Hector?”

“ _Sí_. I always sure when it comes to _dinero_.” Hector replied, passing amongst his horses as the gang transferred their saddles to their own mounts. “Charged you so much, ‘cause, I figured I would be needin’ to shoot a few of these _cayuses_ when ya returned ‘em. But, they look quite _buena_ , need _resto_ , but _buena_.”

Walking over with his hands jammed in the deep pockets of his gray coat, Heyes asked, “Mean, I get a discount??”

“Ha!” Hector’s thin shoulders rattled with his bolted laugh, and he punched Heyes in the bicep, “always admire your hopeful spirit, _amigo_.”

Heyes nodded, holding on to his closed-lip smile.

“No discount. Ya can afford it, is what I consider.”

“That we can,” Heyes replied, pulling hundred dollar banknotes from his pocket. “In fact, Hector,” Heyes tossed him the entire bundle, “I added a bonus if you never saw us.”

“Me, I no see any of you.” Hector rifled the bills like a deck of cards, “ _Especialmente_ you, _Señor_ Hannibal Heyes.” His smile drifted to Curry, and “you too _Señor_ , would not want people to say, I consort with the wrong sort. It be hard being different around, so many…. shall we say… who are not Catholic. But, ah, _Señors_ to be known for harborin’ _malo_ men, that would be my undoin’.”

Heyes laughed, “Hector, far as bad men go, I’d say we’re pretty good, bad men.”

The bushy walrus mustache adorning Hector’s face vibrated with his laughter, “You wish me to inform ‘em of that when they come askin’ about you and _Señor_ Curry?”

Heyes’ notorious smile broke free, “best not.”

One by one, the Devil’s Hole Gang drug themselves into their saddles, grousing every inch it took them to get there.

“Come on, Boys, one more ride, and there will be hot food, drinks, and beds awaiting us at Lottie’s.” Waving good-bye to Hector, Heyes called out, “Ride.”

Their fresh horses snorted, in the crisp dawn air, a few kicking up their heels, but the fifteen-minute gallop reminded them they were tame ponies, not the mustangs they had thought themselves to be upon leaving the Villanova Ranch.

They were, again, walking; the men riding slumped in their saddles. Exhaling long and hard,

Heyes closed his eyes, letting his body sway with the steady rhythm of his horse. Feeling himself drifting, he enjoyed the half-doze, when with a snap his head came up and checking his battered watch saw nearly fifteen minutes had passed. Rolling his neck side to side, Heyes looped his reins about his saddle horn, and rising in his stirrups, arched his back. Settling back in, he found Wheat had fallen in alongside him.

“Better.”

Heyes nodded

“Kid sure was right.”

Heyes nodded again.

“You planned it all just right, too.”

His tone holding just enough bite to rankle the older man, Heyes asked, “You wanting something?”

“No! Just making conversation.”

The watch’s longhand was reaching for the six when Heyes again checked it, muttering, “Heyes replied, “Don’t recall requesting any.” Raising his voice, he barked, “Trot!” and with the increase in speed, the two fell apart with Heyes wearing a malicious grin that his partner saw clearly.

When the next call came to walk, Curry moved in close to his partner, “you got Wheat all on edge.”

“Good. Won’t be happy ‘till he’s tiptoeing by me.”

Taking off his hat, Curry scrubbed at his matted curls, “Keep telling you, it’d be best if you just let this go.”

Heyes’nose wrinkled.

“No harm was done.”

An eyebrow arched Curry’s direction.

“You weren’t injured.”

“You tell me how you feel when it’s you using your Colt for cover.”

“I do that all the time,” Curry responded, almost getting it out without snorting.

Heyes’ jaw tightened and glancing at his watch, he saw they still had a few minutes.

“Come on, you gotta admit it was funny.”

Throwing a baleful look at his life-long pal, Heyes wheeled his sorrel, walking back through his gang members. “We got about another hour, and we’ll be in town, and we’re going to ride up to Lottie’s like it was any other night, eat dinner, and crawl into bed.”

“Ain’t gonna be like any other night,” Merkle called, “Cause most nights, I’m asleepin’ alone, and tonight I’m plannin’ to nest up with Lilly.”

A chorus of grunted agreements and similar comments rolled forth, and when they quieted, Heyes called, “Trot.”

Dusk was smothering the land when they swung sedately into Lottie’s corral, riding straight into the barn. A couple of gang members stripped their saddles, tossing them over a rail and headed straight for the barn doors.

“Halt!” Curry called from the offside of his big bay, not wanting to see who it was, he continued checking and cleaning the horse’s hooves, “see properly to your horse, it served you well and what if you need it later.”

After that, every man took his time grooming their mount until the entire herd shone like award-winning racers.

Hooking his thumbs in his vest pockets, Kyle set back in his heels, beaming, “Don’t think I ever seen our stock look so fine.”

Dropping an arm across Kyle’s shoulder, Curry leaned on him, saying, “and, no one is going to consider they traveled fifty miles today either.”

“That be for sure.”

“But, I sure as hell feel like I did.” Lobo complained, rolling his shoulders. “… and more.”

“That’d be ‘cause we traveled a hundred.” Hardcase shook his head, “never would have thought it possible.”

Hank put in, “yeah, but I don’t recall, last time I was so bone-tired, worn down.”

“I do,” Lobo answered, looking to Heyes, who was walking up with his saddlebags hanging over his shoulder. “It was the reason; I gave up drivin’ steers up the Chisholm Trail.”

“Driving steers never paid like this,” Heyes replied, handing a stack of banknotes to each gang member.

Despite how tired they were, the jubilation of payday from such a smooth, effortless heist perked up their moods, and they set to joshing each other, all the way to Lottie’s front porch.

When they rung the bell, the door was answered by a lumpy, short man in the brightest, gaudiest, cowboy regalia, any of them had seen since Cody’s Wild West Show passed through Denver.

Heyes brows shot up, then instantly dropped down low, “Is Lottie here?”

A tittering laugh erupted, “costumes that _bonne_ , is it, _Chér_?” and the enormously wide-brimmed hat was pushed up, revealing Lottie’s elaborately charcoaled eyes. “Come on in, each of ya is welcome as _toujours_.”

“Why you decked out so?” Curry asked, slipping by her.

“Why, _Chér_ , it's Halloween, and we’re havin’ a….” she waved her hand to the gaily attired and wildly costumed crowd. “… Masquerade.”

All the gang members grinned, the party-goers washing away some of their tiredness, when with a boisterous laugh Curry bumped against Heyes, roaring, “And, you without your bloomers.”

At that, the entire gang broke into snorting, guffawing laughter.

Heyes flamed red, turning on Wheat.

Wheat slapped a hand across his mouth.

But then a smile erupted on Heyes’ face that brought to mind the evil that Halloween hinted of, and pointing a finger at Wheat, he turned away walking off into the party.

“Like I said, before---”

“I know, Kid, you wouldn’t want to be me.”


	15. Watching the Parade Go By

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heyes always has Kid, that is unless he brings them bloomers up again..........
> 
> Destiny’s Cycle is set during Heyes and Curry’s outlaw days.   
> It tracks their lives, their rise to notoriety and how, at times Lady Luck misuses them. 
> 
> Each chapter is a mystery to me, as I do not think ahead, but write each one using the fanfic forums monthly challenge. (As I write, I would say it is for General Audiences, but since, I do not know where it is going in the future, I chose the Teen and Up rating to be safe.) I hope you enjoy how they travel Destiny’s wheel, and if you would like to let me know what you think, I would be pleased to hear your feedback.

Never seemed to matter what time he went to sleep or even how much he drank, Heyes, as usual, found himself awake with the dawn. Slipping down to Lottie’s enormous kitchen, he found a half pot of cold coffee from the night before. Dumping a handful of grinds in, he topped it off with water, and filling the black stove, relit the fire.

Back out in the main room, he poked about the shambled mess, the place had been left in when last night's festivities had, eventually, moved to the many bedrooms situated upstairs. From one of the tables, he snagged a piece of carrot cake, taking it to the kitchen, he stood munching and watching the coffee pot. Wiping the crumbs from his fingers on his pant leg, he removed newspapers from the burn bin and taking a cup along with the pot, he headed for the front porch.

The morning was brisk, but not really cold. Taking a seat on the porch swing, Heyes filled his cup, setting the pot on the white, painted floorboards. Holding the cup to his face, he inhaled the potent blend then savored a long drink before placing the cup on the swings armrest. Flicking an eye to the door, assuring he was alone, Heyes patted his pockets and finding his makings, rolled a quirley. With a wry grin, he popped the smoke in his mouth, happy Kid he did not have to endure Kid’s scowl. Striking a match across the sole of his boot, he exhaled the blue-gray smoke into the soft, pastel dawn light and holding his cup close, he swung his legs up into the swing, stretching them out.

Content in the silent solitude, he gently swayed, reading page after page of weeks worth of the La Salle Tribune; as he did, the sun climbed high into the sky, burning off the morning mist and dew. 

When church bells cut through the still air, he looked up, mumbling, “isn’t Sunday, that doesn’t make much sense.” With a shake of his head, he reached to refill his cup, yet again, and finding the pot empty, headed back in.

Dumping two handfuls in this time, he retopped it with water, and while it boiled, ate another piece of cake. Taking his fresh brew back out to the porch, he sipped at a steaming cup while standing on the steps. Cocking his head, Heyes thought, ‘is that singing?’ A frown furrowed his brow, ‘words are foreign.’

Curious, he strolled down to Lottie’s front gate facing the main thoroughfare. Looking up the street toward town, he saw a procession of long robed churchmen being followed by what seemed to be a good deal of the town. And, it was from them, all of them, that strange, almost, chanting song arose. His nose twitched and stepping into the shadows of the gate arch, covered thickly in five-leaf ivy; he watched whole families parade by, laden with bouquets of flowers and baskets brimming with gardening, household cleaning supplies, and festivities for picnicking.

They all looked so joyfully serene. Heyes felt all alone, unable to fathom what was occurring and why it made him feel lonely, he turned on his heel, returning to the porch, to find Lottie watching him from a spot on the swing.

“You need a m _ademoiselle_ in your life, Heyes, if’n for _non_ other reason than to make you decent _café,_ I had to add double cream and sugar to this brew of yours.”

Heyes dimpled smile appeared, “Don’t need anyone to teach me how to make coffee, I like mine just fine, thank you.” Taking up the pot, he warmed his cup, but his eyes strayed to the singing crowd cresting the hill on the horizon.

“That ain’t _mon_ cup of drink neither…” Lottie stated, waving a hand at the disappearing parade, taking another drink from her cup, “whew, not sure this is either. This rot could make a person’s hair stand on end.”

Still watching the townsfolks, Heyes asked, “Who are they?”

“The sort who looks down their pert noses at the likes of you and _moi_.”

Crossing his arms, Heyes’ mouth flattened into a thin line.

Taking another sip, Lottie eyed him over the brim of her cup, “It is All Saints Day.”

He sucked on the inside of his lower lip, his nose wrinkling.

And, a tickled laugh rolled from Lottie, “Ah, _Chér_ , you sure are sweet to look on when you're vexed.”

A corner of his mouth softened.

“You ain’t _Catholique_ …”

He shook his head.

“Not even Methodist, I suspect.” Lottie grinned to herself, “ _Mon Père_ always sneered calling ‘em half-Catholics.”

One eyebrow arched her way, a dimple appearing.

“All in all, _Chér,_ I reason it is why you are not understandin’ All Saints Day.” She patted the swing seat.

Striding over, he sat down, her verbena perfume entwining itself about him.

“It is the day _familles_ go to the cemetery to honor those they _amoured_. They clean the sites; decorate ‘em… just beautifully they do. When the work is all done, they have a right _bonne pique-nique_ …” She looked off where the families had gone. “… they laugh, tell stories, and remember those who have passed.”

His dark eyes tracked the far crest in the road, “sounds kind of nice.”

Lottie nodded, “if‘n you got _famille_ there, it would be.” Laying a hand on his muscled thigh, she gave it a pat. “Come on, _Chér_ , let’s go rustle us up some breakfast.”

“I had cake already.”

A full-throated laugh burst from Lottie, and catching her breath, she squeezed his thigh firmly, “Of course, you did. What _garçon_ can resist cake?”

A furrow appeared in Heyes’ brow, “I don’t know much French. However, I do know _garçon_ means boy and Lottie, I haven’t been a boy for a long time.”

Quick as a bird, she kissed him on his high curved cheekbone, “Ah, _Chér_ , all y’all _monsieurs_ retain a bit of _garçon_ in you till the day y’all die. I deem you outlaws has even a bit more in you, that be why y’all is wild, never wantin’ to grow up. Must be why _moi_ is so drawn and charmed by y’all _mal_ _monsieurs._ ”

“You could be onto something there.”

“I’m positive I am, now let _moi_ fix you breakfast.”

____________________________________ASJ_____________________________

When the Devil’s Hole Gang departed Lottie’s Chicken Ranch there was a heavy line of clouds drifting in from the north, trapping a band of golden light beneath them that set the world on fire; each autumn clad tree seeming more beautifully vibrant than the last. But, this was not noticed by the hungover men slumped in their saddles.

Raising his head, Preacher shielded his eyes, “that bank looks to be carrying snow.”

Working at prying black licorice strips apart, Kyle took a look, “agree with ya, but it still be a ways off.”

“I wouldn’t of missed last night for anything,” Lobo said, taking off his hat and rubbing a hand through his hair, “but I sure might of changed a few choices if I knew my head was going to feel this way.”

“I told you that Frenchie champainee would make ya head hurt.” Kyle stated, shoving a strip of candy into his mouth, “it done the same to me when I drank it another time.”

Passing him a lopsided grin, Lobo said, “Mz. Lottie sure does know how to throw a shindig. That is for sure.”

John turned in his saddle, “Hey, Merkle, did ya wind up nestin’ with Lilly, like you wanted?”

“I did,” Merkle replied with a grin. “Only there wasn’t a whole lot of nesting more rustling if you got my meaning.”

Each outlaw did, and their conversation became louder, more colorful, and unashamed as their horses plodded down the backside of the hill, where the road meandered into a sloping valley.

From the front, Curry called back, “pipe down the lot of you.” Jabbing a gloved hand at the cemetery, they were approaching.

Le Salle’s Cemetary sat in the curve of the valley, pretty as a picture or so the saying goes, nestled between shrub rows with a bubbling brook at its backside, and shady oaks releasing curled brown leaves like lazy birds to the ground. However, it was the families scattered across the cemetery which had Curry shushing the outlaws following him.

Riding along, they took in the folks cleaning and decorating graves, a fire crackling near the creek where several women were cooking and children playing in an unused portion of the grounds. As they watched, they also steered their horses about Heyes, who had come to a halt in the middle of the road.

Hank asked, no one in particular, “what are they doin’?”

It was Heyes, who answered, his voice sounding soft as the oak leaves floating down, “Honoring their loved ones.”

Hank nodded, several of the others frowned, their own consciences nagging them.

Chirking to his gelding, Heyes aimed him for the grassy ditch by the cemetery corner.

Veering about him, Kyle reined in, “Uhm, Heyes, I know ya drank more than a Kilkinney last night, but this here, well it just mights not be the best place to relieve yourself.”

Hearing this, Curry turned in his saddle to see his partner stepping down from his horse.

Not thinking his leader had heard him, Kyle rolled the wad of licorice more into his cheek, calling out, “Heyes?” in a much clearer voice.

The dark eyes that turned to Kyle held a coldness which only an imbecile could miss, “I am not relieving myself. Ride on!”

Sinking down between his shoulders, Kyle kicked the little gray speckled mare into a jog to catch the others who were nearly past the picket, border fence.

Whoaing next to Curry, Wheat harrumphed, “What’s he up to?”

“Aim to find out.” Curry answered, turning his bay, “keep‘em heading for the Hole.” Swinging down, Curry dropped his reins, ground tying his horse next to Heyes’ sorrel, who was contentedly grazing.

Approaching his partner, Curry could hear Heyes’ leather gloves creak as he gripped the fence. Taking a breath, he looked to ascertain their gang had ridden on as he ordered; before laying a hand on Heyes’ back, when he did, the tight muscles flinched.

“That should be us.”

Curry’s blue eyes scanned the neat rows of limestone grave markers, his mouth twisting to one side. “What are you talking about?”

“Those families tending to the graves of those they love, sharing this day, and their memories with their children.” Heyes turned from the cemetery, his eyes glistening in his drawn face. “That should be us.”

Licking at his lower lip, Curry felt a tight lump forming somewhere between his throat and heart, “Come on.” His eyes darted off to the north and back, “there’s snow coming.” And, grasping Heyes’ arm, he moved to lead him off.

Jerking sideways, Heyes’ sharply snapped, “Don’t be herding me!”

Curry’s full mouth pinched tight and exhaling slowly, he hitched his thumbs in his belt.

“Don’t you ever consider what our lives could have been?”

“You know, I do,” Curry responded, folding his arms across his chest. “And, you are the one who trained me to not think on it and to _not_ speak of it!”

Leaning back into his heels, Heyes nodded, his eyes drifting to the families in the valley below, “they look so happy with their loved ones near and….departed.”

Stepping so close, their shoulder’s brushed, Curry answered, in a voice sounding years younger and unjaded by time, “They do, at that.”

For a time, they stood, lost in thoughts, but together with the warmth of the sun soaking into their shoulders.

“I get lonely.”

“I know you do.” Curry replied, bumping against Heyes, “I do, too. But we’ll see them again one day.”

A shuddered sigh escaped Heyes.

“We will.”

“I get to feeling, sometimes, the wait is too long.” Heyes said, tugging at his left glove, folding the top back, “and, too far away.”

From the slant of his eye, Curry kept watch. He was well used to Heyes’ moodiness that led to somber days, sullen nights, which would send his partner running for all day and night poker games, hours upon hours of reading, or detailed plotting his next elaborate heist. When Heyes was in that state, his silver tongue could turn mean striking out like a hornet. Except, all of those traits wrapped together had assisted in creating the image of the formidable, outlaw leader he was.

However, this was different, and as Curry watched him, he saw the man standing next to him, at this moment, was not the great and famous, often feared Hannibal Heyes; it was merely his cousin, Han, who carried the load and, right now, his heart was breaking under it.

Spinning, Curry wrapped his arms about his cousin, and Heyes did not pull away. Instead, he sunk into him, “Kid, back in Wichita…”

“Uh, huh.”

“…when I was shot.”

Curry held him tighter, and for a time, Heyes returned the hug, but then he abruptly signaled he wished to be free by leaning back. Reluctantly, Curry did as he wanted, wondering when was the last time he had felt the honest comfort of family, so close, as he just had.

Taking off his hat, Heyes ran the brim through his fingers, looking up with a faltering smile, “When that bullet struck me, and I was lying in the street…I felt cold, and all that was real was drifting from me. It felt like....” he looked away, “… like Mama was there holding me.”

Curry swallowed but didn’t dare move for fear Heyes would cease speaking.

“I’ve tried to retain the feeling of her being there…of her holding me. I know it sounds loco, but Kid, I could feel her, smell her. She was there, and I’ve tried to hold onto it… but it’s slipped away.” As Heyes finished speaking, he looked to the cemetery, the families had been called down to eat, and the graves now stood all alone in the soft, golden sunlight. “Sometimes, I just wish….”

Draping an arm about his shoulders, Curry herded him toward their horses, and this time, he went along peacefully, “I know, Han, I have wishes, too.”

Gathering their reins, they swung into their saddles and taking a long drink of cold water from his canteen, Heyes passed it to his partner, who did the same. When he took it back, hanging it on his saddle horn, he half under his breath said, “Just wish we had family.”

Walking their horses along the road, Curry motioned toward their gang, in the far distance, “that lousy bunch of owlhoots up there is just as lonesome, each with their own sad story. But, we live and eat together, laugh together, fight against each other, and protect each other’s backsides. In our own way, we are a family.”

Heyes grinned a bit, “Well then, we are one hard knock family.”

“Suppose we are,” A wide loving smile flooded Curry’s face, “And, I’ve got you. Always had you, best family a soul could ever want.”

“Thanks, Kid,” Heyes replied, his smile growing.

Seeing the second dimple flickering, lightly, in his cousin’s face, Curry nodded, knowing Heyes would soon have the old deep pain back under lock and key, and urging the lock into place, Curry laughingly, called, “And, of course, you’ve got ME!”

“Yes, I do! And, Kid, I wouldn’t do without you.” Heyes responded, his smile spreading out, full and big, until his dark eyes crinkled, nearly, closed. “Yup, I sure as hell got you.” He shook his head at Curry, “but you bring up those bloomers again, not so sure, I will have you much longer. Because I’ll flatten you like you’ve never seen before.”

“Like to see you try.”

“Go on and bring up those bloomers again.” Heyes chided with a full laugh, slapping his split reins across his horse’s rump. 


	16. Tin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Curry feels the folk here seem 'bout as pleasant as always......
> 
> Destiny’s Cycle is set during Heyes and Curry’s outlaw days.   
> It tracks their lives, their rise to notoriety and how, at times Lady Luck misuses them. 
> 
> Each chapter is a mystery to me, as I do not think ahead, but write each one using the fanfic forums monthly challenge. (As I write, I would say it is for General Audiences, but since, I do not know where it is going in the future, I chose the Teen and Up rating to be safe.) I hope you enjoy how they travel Destiny’s wheel, and if you would like to let me know what you think, I would be pleased to hear your feedback.

The empty buckboard banged along the mountain road, and below in the bowl-shaped valley, the sun-baked roofs of the town glowed white in the afternoon sun. Ahead of the wagon, Heyes and Curry’s geldings plodded along, their puffing, breaths, creating misty clouds for them to pass through.

“You going to remind them?”

Curry peeked over, his face flat.

“Why not?”

“Figure that’s a _leader’s_ job.”

“Thought you said you were a _leader_ , too.”

“Nope, I’ve decided I only want to be head of security. Of course, sadly, that also includes…” Curry grinned, “keeping you out of trouble?”

“I don’t need you keeping me out of trouble.”

“Is that you freeing me from watching your back?” Curry asked, covering his mouth to cough, but it still sounded suspiciously like a chuckle, “Damn, if that won’t make my life simpler.”

This time it was Heyes, who looked over with a firm hard expression.

Without another word, Curry turned his horse back toward the wagon. However, just because he didn’t speak, did not mean he was silent, for his laughter was overpoweringly loud.

Kicking his broad-chested gelding forward, and meeting Curry half-way, Wheat snarled, “You and him,” he nodded toward Heyes, “pokin’ at me again.”

“Never met a man felt the world was so out to get him.”

Wheat Carlson’s weathered face twisted, “most times. . .” he nodded again toward Heyes, “. . . it’s just him I feel that way ‘bouts.”

“Well, settle yourself; it was him I was poking at.”

Pulling at the muffler about his neck, Wheat sifted for answers, when he was saved from replying, by Kyle hollering, “We get into Tin, you mind if’n Wheat, and I wet our whistles?”

“Actually, Kyle, I do mind.”

The outlaw’s shoulders hunched, making him look even smaller, where he sat alone on the wagon’s seat. 

“Supplies are to be loaded, before all else.”

“Suppose so.”

“No, supposing about it.” Curry replied, “It’s the whole reason we ride to Tin.”

Keeping his eyes on the team’s shifting traces, Kyle whined, “but, we is goin’ get us a drink before we leave, ain’t we?” 

“It’s what I have in mind.”

Looking over, Wheat asked, “What about querulous, up there?”

Curry did not bother defending his partner. He knew as well as anyone, Heyes had been about as disgruntled as a boy forced to work the farm when there was a social in town.

Kyle asked, “You come on back, to ride with us, ‘cause we’ll chat with you.”

Shifting in his saddle, Curry wiggled his cold toes, “Oh, I don’t mind riding with him, when he’s feeling proddy.” He grinned, “He talks less, makes for a nice change. Nope, I came back here to remind the pair of you to not be shoving your weight around in town.”

Kyle scratched up under his hat, “Aw, Kid, Heyes done gave us that scoldin’.”

“And?”

“We heard ‘em.” Wheat snarled, his chest puffing up, “What he do? Send you back here to hold our hands like lil’ babies.”

A sly, stern look appeared on Curry’s face and turning in his saddle, he laid it straight on Wheat. “No, I came back wanting to assure myself, the pair of you were listening.”

“Well, we was,” Wheat huffed.

“Good to know.”

Tin’s class of citizens varied from brawny, over-worked miners to resplendently, attired townsfolk none of which bothered to turn their eyes to the four Devil’s Hole members traveling down the main thoroughfare.

At a storefront, whose glass plate window had 'Apothecary' painted across it, Curry turned in beside Heyes, who was already dismounted. However, when the wagon rolled by, Heyes turned a glare on Wheat, that had the intensity of a caged dog desiring to bite anyone who dared to get near.

Making as if he had not seen the look, Wheat shifted his gaze away, but the rigidness of his jaw declared otherwise.

“How long before you let up on him?”

Throwing his reins about the hitching post, Heyes tied them off.

“|You ought to let up,” Curry said, tying his horse, “before I wind up having to pull you off one another.”

“It all still rankles my hide.”

“Don’t know why, wasn’t anyone, but he and Betsy, who got to see all your hide.”

Anger creased Heyes dimples into his face.

“Oh, yeah, and that green-eyed gal. What’s her name…Suzanne, who you stole laundry from.”

Heyes turned on Curry with a look that would make most men back up and sit down.

Only thing Curry did was chuff out a snorted cackle and slap his partner on the shoulder, “You haven’t been able to intimidate me since….Oh, hell, I can’t even remember when. Probably since before I started shaving.”

“That is a fib your telling yourself.”

“Oh, I think that’s the other way around.” Curry answered, scanning the town, “folk here seem about as pleasant as always, never understand why you insist us traveling all the way here.”

“I like Tin it is well-stocked, and its people don’t ask questions, because they don’t care to get to know you any.”

On exiting the apothecary shop, Heyes tucked the wrapped bundle, which amounted to their doctoring needs for illness and wounds in his saddlebag. Then in perfect synch, they swung into their saddles, trotting to catch up with Wheat and Kyle, who were, already, loading supplies under the watchful eye of the Mercantile owner perched on the edge of his loading dock.

Tossing his reins to Curry, Heyes stepped off his saddle onto the dock, “Afternoon, Mr. Ruckers.”

At his name, the merchant turned, one thumb tucked behind the neck string of his apron, the other loosely holding a scattergun. “There you are. Had no intention of taking my eye off ‘em.” He motioned toward Wheat and Kyle in their scruffy, comfortable attire, “that is until you showed up with greenbacks, Heyes.”

Heyes’ dark eyes locked on the sawed-off shotgun, “you ever known us, not to settle our accounts.”

Ruckers scratched at his thick middle, “You, I trust. _Them_ I have not ever seen with coins to rub together.”

“Be that as it may,” Heyes’ gloved hand, pointed at the shotgun, his expression not to be misunderstood by even the dimmest man.

Ruckers’ eyes widened, and climbing to his feet, he retreated into the dark mouth of his store, gulping, “I weren’t actually aiming it.”

Following the man in, Heyes dug a folded paper from his vest pocket, “need to add to the order….crate of whiskey, couple bags of candy, pair of size eight boots, ten yards of cured leather that stuff of the right thickness for repairing tack, box of cigars.” He looked up, his eyes straying to the glass display cabinet, “pound of Durham tobacco, block of chaw… what’s that made of?”

Ruckers looked to where Heyes was pointing in the display cabinet, “Uh, Stone.”

This time Heyes flinty, hard eyes actually made Ruckers jump when they shot his way. 

“T’weren’t being factious,” Ruckers whined, tugging one of his long, walrus sideburns. “Stone is all I know. A man came in and traded it for a grubstake.”

Stepping closer to the case, Heyes squatted, peering through the glass. “How much?”

With the mention of money, Ruckers’ natural arrogance returned, “Let it go for a pair of gold eagles.”

“Seems awful steep.”

“Man said he brought it all the way from Italia.”

Heyes’ tongue slid across his lower lip. “It got a box?”

“It does.” Ruckers smiled, “almost as purty as the set.”

Standing, Heyes scanned the shelves, “Them Montgomery fruit cakes?”

Ruckers chuckled, “recognize how she straps empty pie tins together for her cakes, do you?”

“Give me a dozen.”

Ruckers shook his head, “dozen would, nearly, clean me out. She really loaded ‘em with popskull, this time, they’ve been selling better than hotcakes.”

Heyes shook his head, “Give me a dozen, you old thief, and don’t be boosting my cost none because of demand.” The dimpled smile, finally, appearing, ‘… and put that chess set in its box, I’ll take it, too.”

“Kind of going to miss it.”

The smile grew, “But, you’ll enjoy my forty dollars.”

“That I will.”

Once the wagon tarp was strapped down snug, Heyes handed each of his men a cigar and turning to Ruckers, stated, “We’ll pick the wagon up in a bit, so, you and your scattergun keep an eye on it.”

Ruckers’ upper lip wrinkled into a belligerent sneer, “Why in God’s nightgown would I do that?”

“Because, if you, I’ll put to bed, how you were…” Heyes’ grin twisted, becoming a hellish mockery of affability, “holding _that_ scattergun over my men earlier. I figure, if I keep considering on it, there is a high possibility, I am going to install you with a limp that will permanently remind _you_ what an all-fired, foolish notion that was.”

Batting his eyes like an owl in a hail storm, Ruckers backed away, “I’d be pleased to watch over it for you, Mr. Heyes.”

“Thought you might feel that way.”

As their boots clumped on down the wooden walk, Curry leaned in close, whispering, “Your mouth is going to set you up in a situation, you can’t step out of one day. You know that, don't you?”

Blowing trails of cigar smoke through his teeth, Heyes grinned over at his partner, “that’s what I got you for.”

“So, you’re not releasing me from watching your back ?”

With a wink, Heyes took another pull on his cigar. 

“Heyes, what were in that fancy box?” Kyle asked, clamping his cigar in the corner of his mouth. “Durn thing weighed ‘bout as much as the dynamite box.”

At the mention of the explosives, Curry rounded, “you packed that snug and sound.”

From behind his flaming match, Kyle absently, questioned, “The box or the dynamite?”

The other three stopped to stare at him.

“Oh, the dynamite.” Kyle chirped, tossing the burnt match away. “Course, I did. What about the fancy box?”

Back on the move, Heyes replied, “It’s a chess set, all the way from Italia.”

“Where’s that in New York?”

“Keep tellin’ you, Kyle,” Wheat grumped, “everything fancy does not come from New York.”

“Sure seems, too.”

Warmly, Wheat replied, “Only to you. See, Italia is across the ocean.”

“Oh, like Montreal,” Kyle replied with a beaming smile, snagging the saloon door handle and pulling it open for his pals who were laboring to restrain laughing at him. 

Taking a quick look at the room, Heyes said, “Go find a place to light, I’ll get drinks.” Turning from the ornately carved bar, he spied his pals in the corner with Curry positioned so he could see the entire saloon. Pushing away from the bar, Heyes strolled over, eyeing the various games of chance; but never once stepping between the front door and Curry’s view of it.

Wheat scowled up from his spot at the table, “Thought you were getting the drinks?”

Dropping into a chair, Heyes saw Curry’s head tilt his way, the slightest bit.

“Gal’s going to bring them to us,” Heyes responded, pulling out a deck of cards.

“No time for that.” Curry responded, nodding toward Kyle, “tell him.”

“Were a red sky this morning. And, while y’all was at the druggist, a flock of black necks flew over as low, as low can be.”

Heyes smirked, “That whole red sky is an old wives’ tale.”

“Yeah, but geese flying low aren’t.” Curry returned so matter-of-factly, it was clear the discussion was over before it began. 

Dropping the cards back in his pocket, Heyes knew without looking the barmaid was headed their way by the way Curry straightened in his seat. Leaning closer to him, Heyes unveiled the exact grin, he knew nettled his pal, and said, “No time for that, either.”

Except, his words did little to dampen the smile Curry was aiming at the barmaid.

With a giggle, she leaned in, placing a half glass of whiskey before Curry, leaving behind the sweet aroma of summer flowers. Adjusting her tray’s balance, she set down two more whiskeys and a beer mug before Wheat.

When she did, Wheat’s blue eyes flew wide, his head rearing back at the apple slices swirling languidly in the pinkish liquid that filled the mug to the brim, a brim which was well covered in something white; and behind him, he could hear other saloon patrons laughter along with fanciful, discouraging taunts.

The barmaid, giggled, again placing her now empty hand on her hip, “Lefty, calls it, a bustle warmer.” 

Kyle leaned in close, “Wonder, what makes it pink?”

Wheat’s eyes flicked to Heyes, who was grinning like a pup with a ham hock. “Ordered it special for you.”

“Bet you did.”

“Most welcome.”

Frowning until the ends of his mustache nearly touched, Wheat tentatively poked at the white crusted rim. The granules stuck to his finger, his eyes narrowed, he sniffed at it, and then his tongue darted out, taking a taste.

Laughter erupted from the others.

“It’s sugar.”

Wiping at the corner of his eye, Heyes gasped, “What? You think it was cyanide?”

“All things considered.”

Sucking on his grin, Heyes lifted his tumbler and before taking a drink, said, “Smarter than I thought.”

A deep, grooved line appeared between Wheat’s brows.

Before it could go any further, Kyle tapped him on the forearm, offering his own short drink, “If’n you don’t want it…?”

“Nope, Heyes here, ordered it special for me.” Picking up the mug, Wheat kept his eyes locked on their leader and took a big gulp. Surfacing, he smacked his lips, “Actually, Heyes….” he took another drink, “it’s pretty damn good, thanks.”

Before the others were done, Curry having downed his fairly quickly, pushed back from the table, “All right, get moving, winter’s coming.”

Nodding Kyle stood, stealing an apple slice from the little pile Wheat was munching his way through.

“You two get the rig,” Curry told Kyle, pointing at the still seated, Heyes, “we’ll pay, and catch up.”

Ambling toward the door of the steadily filling room, Wheat popped the last bit of apple in his mouth, and watching him, Kyle said, “Wish Heyes had ordered me such a grand drink, I think he likes you more.”

Wheat’s full smile emerged, crinkling up his face, “trust me, Kyle, it’s the opposite of like that he feels for me.”

When the door shut on the pair, Heyes pushed back, swallowing the last of his drink, and placing the glass on the table upside down, he fell in pace behind his partner.

“Heyes, I’m hoping we beat the snow, don’t care for traveling in snow,” Curry said, removing his gloves from his holster belt and pulling them on. “Even more, I know you hate it. You’re lucky, I didn’t tell those two the main reason we’re leaving town so fast…” Curry’s smile spread, “was so I didn’t have to listen to you grouse and whine all the way back to the Hole.” Not getting the reply he expected, Curry glanced back to laugh at the dark look pinning his back. Except there was none; for Heyes had veered off and was bellied up to the craps table.

Changing direction, Curry exhaled heavily, and as Heyes raised his hand to roll, he felt a glove wrap about his fist.

“Only plan to roll once, Kid.”

“It is never just one.”

“I already laid my money down.”

The stickman nodded, pointing to the ten dollars covering the ‘pays double twelve.’

The bridge of Curry’s nose wrinkled, “Once.”

Heyes beamed and blowing on the dice, he threw them.

The dice spun through the air, hitting the table, bouncing, tumbling until they crashed to a stop against the wall.

“Three.” The stickman called raking in the dice and Heyes’ ten dollars.

Heyes immediately held out his hand for the dice, digging into his vest pocket.

“Nope, we’re done,” Curry said, touching his hat brim to the pretty gal, who was the game’s boxman, and spinning Heyes toward the door. “I will pay. You catch up with the others.”

Tucking his hands in his coat pockets, Heyes scuffed from the building, and watching him, it was all Curry could do to hold in his laughter. 

Minutes later, after sadly removing himself, from the hands of the sweet summer smelling barmaid, he had found out was named Renny. Curry made his way out onto the boardwalk, wishing they really did have more time to spend in town and also, why all saloon gal’s names seemed to end in y. Noticing how much darker it was, he studied the low hanging gray clouds, thinking, ‘Hope we beat the snow.’

That was when a string of roared curses reached him, turning Curry saw down a bit, in the middle of the street, a good rumble occurring. Moreover, he recognized the line of cursing and the voices behind it. Leaping into the street, he took off at a run. 

Pushing through the circled up crowd, Curry had to jump over a pair of men laid out in the dirt, with his gray bowler partially flattened beneath him. Then with the speed which made him a legend, Curry lifted his pistol, drawling, “Reckon that’ll be enough of that.”

Truth was, it was not his appearance or his words, so much as the distinct sound of his Colt readying to fire that interrupted the battle, with most of its participants looking warily Curry’s way.

“Well, Howdy, Kid, it sure be good to see ya.”

Nodding a reply to Kyle, who was shaking free of the man he had been exchanging blows with, Curry said low and calm, “Heyes, you best be letting up on that one before you brain ‘em.”

Grudgingly, Heyes rolled back, and standing, kicked the wide-chested man in the leg, making him squall.

The pair of tuffs, who had been holding Wheat, fell back with their hands up, when Curry turned their direction, while the man who had been using Wheat for a punching bag sidestepped further from Curry.

Having been released, Wheat tottered for the briefest second, then fell to one knee, spitting out mouthfuls of blood. Latching hold of his hand, Heyes hauled him to his feet, “You’re a little old to be starting street fights.”

Rearing back, Wheat’s big hand, rolled into a hard fist, and taking three quick steps, he struck the bushy eyebrowed man who had been slugging him. The man’s head snapped back, his hat hitting the dirt moments before he did. “Well, Heyes, let me tell you, I’m certainly too old to be losing.”

Placing his hands on his hips, Heyes demanded, “How did this get started anyways?”

“Ain’t letting no coyotes mock me,” Wheat snarled, retrieving his hat from the ground. “Even when you set them up with the ammo.” He hitched a thumb toward the saloon.

Getting right in the older man’s face, Heyes snarled, “If you would cease bulldogging me, and recall you’re part of _my_ gang, the one that I lead, then you wouldn’t ever be on your lonesome.”

“What the hell, I wasn’t alone,” Wheat snapped, “me and Kyle were doing just fine.”

Heyes rolled his eyes, “Well, maybe Kyle was.”

Wheat’s nose bunched up, pulling his upper lip into a snarl.

“Them four were beating you like an old rug when I jumped in.”

“I was fixing knock ‘em off.”

Stepping between the pair of them, Curry held his Colt where each could see it, and in a half-amused voice, said, “Am I going to have to use this to keep you two apart.”

They both attempted to maintain their defiant anger when, in a whoosh, it all slipped away, and they were snorting with laughter.

Shaking his head, Curry holstered the pistol, “good..then, how about we all hightail it before the law shows up.”


	17. Too Quiet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heyes is missing, and Kid is worried sick..........
> 
> Destiny’s Cycle is set during Heyes and Curry’s outlaw days.   
> It tracks their lives, their rise to notoriety and how, at times Lady Luck misuses them. 
> 
> Each chapter is a mystery to me, as I do not think ahead, but write each one using the fanfic forums monthly challenge. (As I write, I would say it is for General Audiences, but since, I do not know where it is going in the future, I chose the Teen and Up rating to be safe.) I hope you enjoy how they travel Destiny’s wheel, and if you would like to let me know what you think, I would be pleased to hear your feedback.

Scootching deeper into the chair with his sheepskin coat bunched up about his face, the deep darkness of a moonless night stretched out before him, blanketing all in its thick quiet.

Tucking his gloved hands beneath his arms, Curry considered retiring. But, he did not move. It was even quieter inside and as much as he teased his partner about, perhaps, giving him some peace and quiet. Curry found he did not like the reticent stillness of the empty cabin. ‘I should have gone with him,’ he thought, for at least the fiftieth time, since the sun had sunk from the sky. ‘Said he’d be back before dark.’ When he exhaled his worry, his warm breath hung in the air, twisting about him like a trapped fog bank. ‘What if he’s lying out there hurt and alone?’

Pulling his feet off the railing, Curry leaned forward, his elbows digging into his thighs. The abrupt move shifted his lungs, and a wet cough erupted. The single cough became a flood of coughs hat disturbed the Devil’s Hole’s quietude, even more than the hoot owls, who had spent over thirty minutes, garbling at each other in the purple dusk; but that had been hours ago.

Spitting a slimy glob over the porch railing, Curry heaved a weary sigh, dropping his head into his hands, “Heyes, where the hell are you?”

“No lights, thought you’d turned in.”

The chair skidded back, slamming into the wall as Curry leapt to his feet, flipping his buttoned coat clear as his palm wrapped about the Colt’s polished, mahogany butt.

“Whoa, Kid! Whoa!!”

“About put a hole in you!”

Wheat Carlson stepped closer, “don’t need any extras, thanks.”

“What do you want?”

“Been waiting up for Heyes to ride in.” He put a boot on the bottom step. “Didn’t realize you were still up, ‘till I heard that lunger’s hack you’ve acquired.”

Curry dropped into his chair, another cough taking over.

Shaking his head, Wheat climbed the cabin’s front steps, “Go inside, you’re goin’ to kill yourself out here; then what will all of us do with Heyes?”

“What??”

“You’re the only one who keeps a handle on ’em. Hellfire, he’d blow like a ruptured tank without you around.”

Tucking his hands back under his arms, Curry grunted, “I will be fine.”

Hitching a leg up on the porch rail, Wheat took a seat, “You stay out here, you won’t.”

“Carlson, leave me be.”

Rubbing at the underside of his chin, Wheat studied the sweating, pale, gasping man before him. ‘He really does look like a worried, overgrown kid sitting out here.’ Pulling his gloves from his coat pocket, Wheat slid them on, “I’ll sit up and wait. You go to bed.”

Red-rimmed eyes shifted to Wheat, giving him an urge to skedaddle back to the bunkhouse. Instead, he grumbled, “It’s where you ought to be. It’s where Heyes would want you.”

Leaning back, Curry closed his fever brilliant eyes, “He went to town for me.”

“I know he did.”

“He isn’t back.”

“Know that, too.”

Curry rubbed both hands up his face, and holding them there, he mumbled, “why were you waiting for him?”

Carlson grinned, ruefully, “Don’t you ever be tellin’ him. But, I like Heyes, he has grit. Truth is he is a fine one to ride the trail with.”

Curry considered his words, and lowering his hands, asked, “Then why are you always at him until you have all his neck hairs on end?”

“When he’s agitated, he watches over us all even more.”

Curry tilted his head.

“It makes him a better leader to be on edge.”

Curry thought to argue Wheat’s train of rational, but overall, he felt too weary to breach the subject.

“Come on,” Wheat stood, extending his hand. “I’ll stand guard while you sleep.”

Curry stared at the hand and its owner, before letting himself be pulled to his feet. Once there, a croak emerged from him, and another round of coughing took over, going on and on, torturing him; until he caught his breath and again spit.

“In,” Wheat said, pointing at the cabin door.

Staggering in, Curry stumbled to his room and struggling out of his coat, holster, and boots, he could hear Wheat stirring up the stove fire. “Coffee’s in the blue tin by the stove,” he called, then unable to catch himself, he set to coughing. His performance went on for a good minute or two until with a moaning croak, he rung himself out.

“Damnation, Kid, lie down before you hack a chunk of lung on the floor.”

Worn down and sore, Curry still grinned, quite simply, because he did not feel too far from what Wheat described. Not bothering to remove his clothes, he tumbled into bed.

At some point, he rolled over and thought he smelled bacon. Swimming up to wakefulness, he forced his eyes open. The brilliant, late morning light, drenching his room startled him, and he sat up like he had been jabbed with a hot poker. In the same instant, he set to coughing. Wrapping his arms about his ribs, he rolled from bed and lumbering to the piss bucket, hacked gobs of phlegm in it, before using it. Then flinging open his bedroom door, he lurched into the main room, “Heyes, you had me worried sick.”

“Not Heyes,” Preacher replied drolly, looking back from where he stood at the cast iron stove, “and you were already sick. Unfortunately, you are still gonna be worried.”

Curry’s eyes darted about the cabin, and knowing the answer, still had to ask, “He’s not back?”

Preacher frowned, sorrowfully.

“Gotta go find him.”

The bacon hissed angrily as Preacher turned it with a fork, “no reason.”

Curry, hoarsely, answered, “no reason…” pointing to the front door, “he’s out there alone.”

“Wheat, Lobo, and Kyle rode out before the sky was even pink yet. They said they’d bring him back and I’m positive they will. They also said I was to keep you here.”

“Good luck doing that,” Curry muttered, stomping back to his room.

Covering one side of a plate with bacon, Preacher cracked four eggs in the skillet grease, grinning like a weasel at the flow of the inventive and vibrant curses emanating from Curry’s room.

Kid Curry came storming out of the room red-faced, his eyes sparking with anger, and hollered, “Where the hell---” Another coughing fit took over, wringing through him until he sank down in a chair. Catching his breath, he looked bitterly over at Preacher, “Where the hell are my boots, holster, and coat?!”

Flipping grease over the eggs, Preacher said, “made you breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“That is either a bald-faced lie, or I’m exchanging words with a haunt.”

Staring hard at the man, he usually felt friendly toward Curry bit his lower lip.

Lifting the hot pot with a rag, Preacher filled the coffee cups sitting on the table and removing a flask from his pocket, dumped a good dose of rye in the black brew, cajoling, “Come on, Kid, coffee‘ll make your throat feel better.”

With a sigh, Curry picked up the cup, “But, I want to go find him.”

Having turned to remove the eggs from the skillet, Preacher was glad his back to Curry, because he could not hold in the smile that arose on hearing Curry’s whining tone. Then, as Wheat had earlier, he found himself pondering how much the gunslinger sounded like his moniker.

Which made him wonder, how all of them had decided to follow men so much younger than themselves. Big Jim had been one thing, and back then, Heyes had been his pet. How was it, Heyes and his partner had become their leaders? But, before he could souse deeper into his considerations, he was interrupted.

“You planning on giving me them eggs and bacon or just staring at them ‘till they're cold?”

“Thought you weren’t hungry.”

“Well, I am.”

Setting the plate before Curry, Preacher said, “I knew you were. Never been a time, I haven’t seen you pile into grub, like a pup too long off the teat.”

Curry looked up sharply, his mouth already too full to reply.

A scratchy laugh worked its way from Preacher as he liberally dosed, his own cup with whiskey, “Now, when your finished, head on back to bed.”

Swallowing, Curry gulped out, “Heyes--”

“Will be found.”

Forking up more eggs, Curry glanced toward Heyes’ closed bedroom door, a hint of a smile emerging.

“Your boots aren’t in there. And, if you go looking, you’ll find your coat is missing, and your saddles not in the tack room.”

Slamming his fork on the table, Curry took a breath to rip into Preacher and instead exploded into a cacophonous hacking fit.

“Eat and bed.”

Around the same time, lower on the mountain, three outlaws were trotting briskly into Tin.

Shivering like a dog shaking himself, Kyle called out, “Sure is cold.”

“I’m right here, no use telling me,” Wheat replied.

“Just glad we made it off Spineback Ridge leading down.” Lobo said, “were a bit there, I figured the wind was going to blow me clear of my saddle.”

Pulling up, the outlaws sat three abreast on Tin’s Main Street, gawking at the empty town.

Kyle looked left and right, his blue eyes seeming extra-large, “It’s too quiet, I don’t like it.”

Loosening his stampede strings, Wheat asked, “What day is it?”

Before either of his companions could answer, a church bell’s sharp clanging ripped apart the winter morning, and they all nodded.

Standing in his stirrups, repositioning himself before dropping back in his seat, Lobo said, “that does explain the ghost town.”

“If’n it’s all closed up,” Kyle looked to Wheat, “where we gonna look for Heyes?”

Sucking on his lower lip, Wheat sat silent and then smiled, “Let’s check the Livery first.”

When Kyle and Lobo pulled the double barn doors open, the horses inside pushed their heads, over their stall gates, to see who had arrived.

Pacing down the row of stalls, Wheat came to a halt, “Here’s Clay.”

From where he was leaning against the door frame, Lobo said, “that means Heyes is still here in town.”

“You think!”

“No reason to get proddy, Wheat. Fact is ya should be happy.” Kyle said, pulling off a glove and digging his block of chaw from his pocket. “I been worried we might‘ve passed‘em, somewhere on the way down, and not known it.”

Wheat nodded, “yeah, I had thought of that, too.”

“So, now, where do we look?” Kyle asked, he and Lobo both giving Wheat their full attention.

He stared back, his face settling into a wrinkled furrow.

Lob asked, “what ya thinkin’ we should do?”

Clay pushed against his stall gate, whickering at his own companions standing outside the barn.

“Well…” Wheat said, glancing to the sorrel, “Let’s get a saddle on Clay, and take him with us.” Having made decision, Wheat strode to the open doors, eyeing the empty streets, ‘Where you at Heyes?’ After a long few minutes, he turned back, “Kid said he came down for him. . . what was he doing down here?”

Lobo grunted, “no,” tightening Clay’s cinch and the horse side-stepped into him, trying to stomp on his foot. “Swear, this animal has never liked me much.”

Kyle laughed at Lobo and spitting on the soft dirt floor, said “When he was leaving, Heyes told me--”

“You spoke with him?”

Kyle nodded, “Uh-huh. I helped get Clay caught up and saddled.”

“Just now, you’re thinking of sharing this with us.”

Kyle looked down, his worn boot scuffing up some dirt, covering the wet stain he had made.

“Out with it, Kyle.”

“Ya sure are on the prod, Wheat.”

“Kyle!?” Wheat barked while thinking, ‘I’m getting an understandin’ of why Heyes is on the prod, so often.’

“Said he recalled once when he was really sick, his Ma had dosed‘em with honey to stop his coughin’. Said, it worked, ceptin’ she gave‘em so much, he still don’t care much for it. Which I told ‘em was hard to believe, ‘cause ain’t much better in this world than clover honey.”

Leading Clay out, Lobo handed him to Kyle, “So, he came down for honey?”

“Yup.” Kyle nodded, “we don’t keep none at The Hole.”

Reaching up under his coat, Wheat tucked in the loose tail of his shirt, “hmmm….suppose we don’t.”

“He also said he wanted to speak with the Druggist. ‘Cause nothin’ he’d dosed Kid with was doin’ much good.”

Wrapping his muffler back up around his face, Wheat said, “Let’s go talk to the Druggist.”

“Uhm, Wheat, it's Sunday.”

Wheat’s shoulders slumped, “Yeah, I suppose, he’s down there in the hothouse with everyone else.”

Lobo asked, “should we wait?”

“Don’t feel like waiting.” Wheat headed for his own horse, “Where would a person get honey?”

Lobo replied, “Reckon the mercantile.”

“It’d be closed too.” Kyle put in.

Grabbing up his reins, Wheat grunted, “Well, damnation,” and swung onto his horse.

Looking up, Lobo squinted at the bright sunlight, “Maybe, he went to the Cat House?”

“Nah, Heyes, don’t like that place.” Wheat replied absently, studying at what he could see of Tin.

“You sure, ” Lobo went on, “he most definitely likes the action at the Chicken Ranch.”

“That’s Lotties. He doesn’t like Ruby’s, says it’s the type of place a man goes if’n he wants to catch something.”

Kyle’s mouth dropped open, “that true?”

“Ain’t inspected it, Kyle. Always figured I’d just take’em at his word.”

By this time, the three of them were mounted and staring blankly at Tin.

“Druggist closed, so the mercs, Cat House is a no…” Lobo mumbled, “think he got himself in an all-night poker game?”

A smile appeared on Kyle’s face, “Yeah, maybe we oughts to check the saloons. We could even get one of’em ‘bustle warmer’ drinks, ya had, Wheat.”

Wheat looked hard enough over at his pal, Kyle sunk into his shoulders, “but, ya said it were good.”

Closing his eyes, Wheat snorted, turning from Kyle, “Nope, he came down here in a hurry ‘for Kid. He wouldn’t play poker, nope, he’d want to hustle right back to The Hole.”

“Too bad ol’ Clay can’t tell us where he is.”

This time Wheat did not even bother to respond to his pal, but Lobo said, “Hell, he couldn’t if he could, he was way back in the barn, and the doors were closed.”

“I got it!” Wheat smiled, “only _one place_ that could keep him from returning.” Then the smile was gone.

Lobo’s brow furrowed, and he scratched at the stubble along his jaw, asking, “how we gonna get him out of jail?”

Goosing his horse, Wheat drawled, “Suppose we best ascertain he is there first.”


	18. Disatrous Enterprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heyes has been arrested, and he would appreciate it not be spread about......
> 
> Destiny’s Cycle is set during Heyes and Curry’s outlaw days.   
> It tracks their lives, their rise to notoriety and how, at times Lady Luck misuses them. 
> 
> Each chapter is a mystery to me, as I do not think ahead, but write each one using the fanfic forums monthly challenge. (As I write, I would say it is for General Audiences, but since, I do not know where it is going in the future, I chose the Teen and Up rating to be safe.) I hope you enjoy how they travel Destiny’s wheel, and if you would like to let me know what you think, I would be pleased to hear your feedback.

Standing on the corner, opposite the jail, Wheat said, “Lobo, go check inside.”

“Me!?”

“You got the shortest wanted poster, most likely ain’t even posted.”

Frowning deeply, but unable to find an argument, Lobo rode across and taking a breath, swung down eyeing the sign reading ‘Tin Marshal’s Office’ and with a sigh, headed for the door.

Inside, the warmth enveloped him, setting his face to tingling. On the desk was a square metal tin of Coleman’s mustard powder and a Mason jar, most likely, filled with honey. But, no Marshal, or even a deputy, and at this, Lobo scratched his backside, his mouth puckering in consideration.

“You planning on standing there, scratching yourself ‘till they return from morning services?”

Spinning about, he found Hannibal Heyes, with his forearms propped against the bars of his cell. “Howdy, Heyes. Where’s the keys?”

“In that little safe behind the desk.”

“Where’s your lock picks?”

“Same place.”

Lobo blinked, “all of’em!?”

“Let’s say, Marshal Clark was thorough in his search, after catching me using them on the Druggist door.”

“You got caught stealing drugs?”

“Hadn’t made it that far,” Heyes replied with a snide smile, “And, appreciate you not spreading that about.”

Lobo walked closer, “What you want us to do?” He hitched a thumb toward the door, “Wheat and Kyle is outside with the horses; we could try to pull the window off your cell.”

“No, wall faces the street, you all might be noticed before you got it out.”

“Should I find something else you can use to pick the lock?”

“Marshal doesn’t seem to be the trusting sort,” Heyes replied, pointing to the top of his cell door, where a chain and lock were wrapped. “Wouldn’t do any good, nothing in here for me to stand on to reach it.”

“Well, ain’t that dirty of‘em.”

“I was thinking clever.” Heyes sighed, “But, I suppose, I could be encouraged to see your way of it.” Pushing off the bars, he said, “Go see if Kyle has a stick in his saddlebags.”

“Thought you told him not to do that no more.”

“I did.” Heyes made a chirking noise, “also know, Kyle doesn’t always listen when it comes to dynamite.”

With a shrug, Lobo went outside, waving his pals over, “Only Heyes in there, and he wants to know, if’n you’re carrying a stick.”

Kyle suddenly took great interest in the lasso ring on the shoulder of his saddle.

“He seems to think, the answer is yes.”

Exhaling loudly, Wheat said, “One day, you’re gonna blow yourself _sky-high_. Hopefully, you don’t take none of us with you.”

“Ain’t as dangerous as people think.”

Stepping closer, Lobo barked, “Kyle! You got it or not?”

Twisting in his seat, Kyle unbuckled one flap of his saddlebag and rummaging about, he removed a box not much bigger than a single stick. Sliding the lid off, he extended a long, cloth-wrapped object to Lobo.

“I don’t want that…” Lobo yipped, jumping back, and shoving his hands behind his back, “Heyes does.”

Seeing where this was going, Kyle returned the stick to its box, stepping down from his saddle.

Moving further away from his, Lobo said, “You go on.” He glanced up at Wheat, “We’ll keep watch out here.”

Hustling through the door, Kyle released a delighted smile, “Howdy, Heyes.”

“Howdy to you.” Nodding toward the box, Heyes dryly stated, “See, you're breaking rules again.”

“Ain’t that what rules are for, must be…” Kyle tilted his head, his smile full of laughter, “or, you wouldn’t be where you are.”

A low baritone laugh filled the room, “Guess I am calling the kettle black.”

Rolling his wad of chaw deeper into his cheek, Kyle’s smile took on a life of its own, and walking to the cell, he asked, “you wantin’ me to blow the door.”

Heyes’ hands flew up, hollering “No!!” His face alive with worried fear.

Kyle enthusiasm deflated, his smile slipping away, “Is ya wantin’ me to blow anything at all?”

Heyes jabbed toward the Marshal’s desk, “the safe.”

Kyle yipped, “A safe!” his puppy dog, overzealous, smile back in place. Strutting over, he took off his hat, removing a fuse line from inside the sweatband.

“That isn’t where you, regularly, keep the fuses?” Heyes asked, thinking they may not be of the best quality when _he_ required them.

“Oh, no,” Kyle replied, “only my special ones for _me._ ”

Heyes’ shook his head, hitching his thumbs in his pant’s waistband.

Squatting, Kyle scrutinized the safe and crawling back to the Marshal’s desk, rifled the drawers, finding a ball of rawhide ties. “Just what I need.” Using a couple, he secured the single stick to the safe’s door handle and dug in his vest pocket for a match. Holding it up, he looked back at Heyes, “Shame, ya can’t try ya hand at it.”

“It is a crying shame,” Heyes answered, backing from the bars. “Let me get down behind the mattress before you light it.”

Kyle laughed, “Suppose it’d be ironic if’n ya was killed by a safe.”

Heyes had the mattress in his hands and turned about, “Ironic? Where’d you learn that?”

“From you on the White Pine job.”

Heyes tilted his head, “but… you alerted that nosy Sheriff, so we weren’t able to pull the job.”

Kyle looked sheepish, “Yeah…” then he shrugged, “that’s when ya said it was ironic I was still alive.”

“Been times, the thought crossed my mind.”

“Well, that time, ya said it out loud and right in front of the whole gang.”

A bit of shame flitted across Heyes’ face, “I did, did I?”

“Uh-hum, none of the boys knew what you meant… not even, Kid. So, I up and asked Lottie, and she told me, it meant when something happens or is the way folks would not think it to be.”

Heyes nodded, “And…?”

“I thought on it, figured ya was right.”

Moving to the furthest spot in his cell, Heyes crouched down, “Take the honey and mustard powder out with you, would hate this all to be for nothing.”

“It ain’t for nuthin’” Kyle grinned, “I get to blow a safe.” He struck the match, “Make sure ya stay down don’t want folks sayin’ ya ending was ironic.”

With a roll of his eyes, Heyes growled, “Thanks, Kyle,” ducking under the flimsy mattress.

To the hissing of the fuse, Kyle darted from the building, the Mason jar and mustard powder gripped to his chest, “It’s gonna blow---“

“ _Sky-high,_ ” Lobo grumbled, twisting the reins of the four horses he was holding, tighter.

“Where’s Wheat?”

But, in that moment, it blew… loud, thunderous, vibrating the ground. The back portion of the Marshal's office disintegrated, allowing a smoking plume to rise in the air, and with a high-pierced whistling sound a whirling set of keys plunked in the dirt before Wheat, who had just maneuvered a wagon up.

“Hey, it’s the keys.” Kyle laughed, bending to retrieve them. “Uh, Wheat, what’s the wagon for?”

“Diversion.” Wheat answered, “now give that stuff to Lobo, and go see if our illustrious leader is alive.”

Nodding, Kyle did as told, while Wheat snagged the lanterns from the shepherd hooks planted on either side of the Marshal office steps.

Shoving the medical supplies in his saddlebag, Lobo called, “we best hurry, sounds like we shook the town out of the church.”

While, from inside the smoking building, they heard Kyle holler, “Heyes, you alive?”

From beneath rubble, which was rolling off the mattress, Heyes appeared, his mouth dropping open at how an entire side of the Marshal’s office was missing. Climbing to his feet, he stuck his fingers in his ringing ears, shouting, “Jehoshaphat, Kyle, I told you to _only_ use _one_ stick.”

“It were just one, one of my purty fat boys,” Kyle jangled the keys, “We get‘em in a box, every so often, and I save‘em back.”

“Kyle Murtry, you really are a disastrous enterprise,” Heyes hollered, shaking his head, and grimacing at the sharp ringing, while pointing at the chain and lock about the top part of his cell, “grab that chair, and get me the hell out of here.”

“No reason to be proddy,” Kyle whined, dragging the chair across the destroyed office. He peered up at the lock, “Is the one in the door broken?” 

“Marshal Clark said it was useless as tits on a bull with me in here.” Heyes grinned, swiping his hat from the floor and beating the film of white dust from it. “He sure had his self a good laugh when he put that lock out of my reach.”

“Suppose ‘n it would of gone better for ‘em, if’n he hadn’t done that.”

From outside, Lobo’s voice roared, “Y’all might want to hurry the hell up.”

And, looking toward the door, they both watched a flaming wagon roll past.

“What are they up to?” Heyes muttered, exiting the cell. “Thanks, Kyle, really do appreciate it.”

“I’d do it again, it were fun.”

Eyeballing him, Heyes leapt over fallen boards and around the tossed desk to where the safe had been.

“What you lookin’ for?”

“My rig,” and sighting the little safe laying out in the alley, he climbed through the hole in the wall, nearly stepping on his gun rig, lying twisted at his feet like a dead snake. Grabbing it, he strapped it on, while trotting toward the safe, glinting in the light, a good distance away. Spying one bunch of his lock picks, he pocketed them, but it was his Schofield he wanted most.

Wheat came flying around the smoking building, his muscular sorrel snorting and jumping, with Clay swinging wide, behind him, on a taunt rein. “Blazes, Heyes, shake a leg. That wagon hit the mercantile. Some of the folks have started a water brigade, but them that are still coming are bristling with firearms. And, look raring to use’em.”

Seeing the butt of a pistol barrel sticking out from under the safe, Heyes barrelled into the little safe, toppling it over and nabbing his Schofield, slammed it in its skid. Running for Clay, he latched hold of the rein, as Wheat released it, and hit his stirrup as Lobo and Kyle raced by, “Wooo Weee! Here they come.”

Although, it was not a point, which needed announcing because the angry bark of firearms was already doing that.

Slamming their heels to their horses, the animals took off like they were going to be cougar feed. They left town at a full out run, and veering from the road, Heyes led his men up a twisting elk trail into the mountains. When the four of them made it to Spineback Ridge, they pulled let their blowing mounts rest.

Down in Tin, the townsfolk were zipping about like a knocked over termite mound, Heyes studied the smoke still rising from the destroyed jail, and the citizen’s trying to keep the flames from the mercantile from spreading, a frown slowly taking over his face.

Standing closest, Wheat whistled, “thinking we should remove Tin from our list of places to visit.”

Heyes’ head turned slowly until he was looking straight at Wheat and rolling his eyes, said, “Come on boys, let’s head home.” 


	19. Thank You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seems Heyes has learned a new word, and he is pushing his luck with Curry using it................
> 
> Destiny’s Cycle is set during Heyes and Curry’s outlaw days.   
> It tracks their lives, their rise to notoriety and how, at times Lady Luck misuses them. 
> 
> Each chapter is a mystery to me, as I do not think ahead, but write each one using the fanfic forums monthly challenge. (As I write, I would say it is for General Audiences, but since, I do not know where it is going in the future, I chose the Teen and Up rating to be safe.) I hope you enjoy how they travel Destiny’s wheel, and if you would like to let me know what you think, I would be pleased to hear your feedback.

A hollow, short cough echoed across the cabin.

“Swallow some more, honey.”

“Don’t need it.”

“If you’re coughing, you need it.”

“Said I don’t.”

Heyes lowered his book to raise an eyebrow sharply at his partner, who had a collection of pistols disassembled across the kitchen table.

“Stop looking at me, Heyes.”

The book went back up, “could at least say thank you.” Although the aroma of gun cleaning oil filled the space between them, no words filled the silence, and as it stretched out Heyes grumbled, “still think a thank you wouldn’t hurt you none.”

There was the soft clunk of metal hitting the table’s scarred top, “you want me to thank you for the burns that mustard plaster left all across my back and chest.”

The book noticeably moved closer to Heyes’ face, obscuring him from Curry’s potent glare.

“Hellfire, I have blisters in some places.”

“It worked though.”

“Not going to agree to that.”

“Next time, I won’t leave it on for so long.”

“There won’t be a next time,” Curry firmly responded, followed by the distinctive sound of a cylinder sliding into place.

“Cleared your chest out,” Heyes laid his book down, “you can breathe, and I say it worked.” He stood, dropping the book on his chair. “So, you could say thank you since I was arrested helping you.”

“You got yourself arrested, nothing to do with me.”

“You can be the biggest ingrate sometimes.”

Curry looked up at his partner, now standing across the table from him, his blue eyes narrowing until they disappeared.

Unmollified, Heyes put his hands on his hips, “you can.”

“Not sure what ingrate means, but it doesn’t sound like anything you should explain to me.” Curry said, turning the Schofield’s cylinder checking its smoothness, “and it damn well does not sound like anything I want to thank you for!”

“Well, what about the honey, you going to say it hasn’t smothered your cough.” Heyes grouched, pulling out a chair and dropping in it. “I got that for you, too.”

“You did, and it did.” Curry replied, setting the Schofield down, “and I could not eat another mouthful for rest of my life and be happy.”

“|Then say thank you.”

“No!” Curry snapped, placing both hands, palms down on the table leveling a disgusted scowl on his pal. “I used to enjoy the tasted of honey, and _you_ ruined that for me.”

Rolling his eyes, Heyes leaned forward, shoving a few revolver parts out of his way, “why can’t you admit I cured you.”

“Stop moving them parts, I laid them out like I want them!”

“Come on, Kid, just say thank you.”

Straightening the parts, Kid muttered, “if I do, will you just leave me be.”

“Might.”

“Not one to bet on them type of odds.”

The corner of Heyes’ mouth twitched, his dimple appearing briefly and deeply in his cheek. “Won’t know until you do.”

“Won’t know until you do.”

Picking up his lukewarm cup of coffee, Curry took a long drink, emptying it. Setting the cup down, he then picked up a pistol frame, “Fine. Thank you.”

A smile burst forth from Heyes, “your welcome, pal. Now you want to hear about how I was arrested all to save you?”

“Nope, you already told me.”

“Yeah, but that was the short version.”

Attaching the ejector rod to the Colt’s frame, Curry replied, “short version was enough.”

“There you go being an ingrate again.”

“Sounds to me like you’ve learned a new word, and I suggest you stop using it on me,” Curry said, softly, peeking over at his pal.

Heyes looked down, then got up, and retrieving the coffee pot, he refilled Curry’s cup, setting the pot on the table. “But, there is more to the whole story.”

“Heyes, I said thank you,” Curry replied sliding a cylinder on the Colt’s frame. “now you keep at me….” He switched his grip on the Colt, so his hand was wrapped around the barrel, “I’m going to buffalo you with this.”

Stepping away from the table, Heyes’ nostrils flared, “you going to act this way, I’ll just take myself down to the hang out with the Boys.”

Curry looked up joyful mirth illumination his face, “Thank You!”


	20. Bleak Midwinter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every day is a new adventure with the Devil's Hole Gang, some showing how giving the Leaders can be, even when they would wish to be otherwise

Laying his book across his chest, Hannibal Heyes laced his fingers behind his head, stretching out in his favorite chair. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the comfortable solitude of the empty leader’s cabin. Beyond the wood walls, he smiled at the trilling songs of birds chirping happily, thinking, ‘It is such a nice day for this late in December, I should go find something productive to do outside.’ Instead, he exhaled, rooting deeper in his favorite chair and crossing his ankles. “Maybe I will take a nap first.’

“Fire! Fire!”

Heyes exploded from the chair, his book flying from him to land in a crumpled pile on the floor. Bolting out the door, he charged down the cabin’s front steps. His eyes shot wide at the crackling, leaping flames emerging from the recently repaired, bunkhouse roof. ‘What the hell have they done now?’ Even as thoughts of wringing certain outlaw’s necks crossed his mind, he was already running to join the bucket brigade forming from the river.

In a frenzy of action, the Devil’s Hole Gang labored shoulder to shoulder passing buckets that sloshed them with frigid. Each bucket being tossed either on the licking flames or used to further wet sections of the building that had, as of yet, escaped destruction.

At length, the fire was extinguished, and the gang members, Heyes, included sunk to the ground gasping for air from their strenuous labors.

Taking several fortifying breaths, Heyes pushed himself up, noticing how bright red his hands were; he frowned, shoving them under his arms. “What happened?!”

The gang members looked from one to the other, each looking more confused and unsure as they did so.

Shaking his head, Heyes stomped forward, cautiously stepped over a fallen charred beam to stand in the smoking remains of the bunkhouse. It was warmer here, but he frowned deeply as he stared up at the brilliant cerulean blue sky above.

“Think it was the stove?”

Slanting an eye to Wheat Carlson who had joined him, Heyes dryly answered, “you think?”

“Now, Heyes, don’t be jumping out of the gate proddy, like that.”

Turning to face Wheat, Heyes’ tilted his head to the side, “How would you like me to jump out of the gate???”

“I understand that your irritated,” Wheat glanced back to the other soot smudged, starting to shiver, gang members, “but think how we all feel.”

Sighing, Heyes turned to look at his gang, ‘damn, but they look pathetic.’

“What we gonna do?” Kyle bleated, “when that sun goes down, its gonna get mighty cold.”

Realization of the true extent of this damage struck Heyes, and he lolled his head backward with a groan.

Lobo put in, “He is correct, Heyes.”

Several of the gang members peeked toward the Leader’s cabin, and Olly bumped into Kyle, whispering, “use your hook line.”

Nodding smartly, Kyle cleared his throat, warmly calling out, “surely, ya ain’t gonna make us all sleep out in the cold, Heyes, ‘cause what makes you such a great leader is you don’t make no one do what you wouldn’t do yourself.”

Running a hand back through his hair, Heyes shook his head, grinning a bit over at Kyle, “One day, that line isn’t going to work for you, Kyle.”

“Is it workin’ for me, well, for all of’n us today?”

“It is,” Heyes sighed. “Hank, John, Lobo get bedrolls from the barn and put in the cabin. Rest of you salvage what you can from this wreck.” As he moved to walk out, Heyes noticed Wheat was blocking his way. “Do something else for you?”

Wheat surreptitiously glanced about, “I just wanted to say thanks, Heyes, thanks for me and all the boys.”

“Well, you heard what Kyle said.” Heyes flashed a broad, flat smile with a shake of his head, he walked off.

It was hours after dark when Curry, Merkle, Hoyle, and Preacher rode up to the Hole, the Leader’s Cabin was lit up like dancehall, and they all sat on their horses out front staring while listening to the rowdiness emitting from inside.

Merkle shoved his hat back some, squinching and frowning, “Heyes decide to have a party while we were away?”

However, Curry's face wore a much deeper frown that was tinged with confusion, “appears that way?”

Sniffing the air, Hoyle asked, “you smell smoke?”

“Now that you mention it,” Curry responded, looking about, and not seeing any lights down where the bunkhouse stood.

“Guess we won’t know what’s up ‘til we put these cayuses up,” Merkle said, looking longingly toward the cheery golden light that could be seen about the edges of the cabin’s curtains. “Whatever is going on in there, sounds right pleasant after our cold ride up.”

Riding to the barn, they each kept looking toward the dark bunkhouse, thinking how odd it was for it to be shrouded in darkness.

Curry said, “that smoke smell is getting a lot stronger,” and turned his bay toward the bunkhouse, a firefly spark moved in the night, and Curry drew his pistol. As his gang mates began trailing after him, the snow-laden clouds drifted from the moon. Its bright light illuminating Hannibal Heyes smoking a cigarillo before the blackened, broken bunkhouse.

Hoyle blurted, “God Kiss Me, but what happened?”

Taking another draw on the cigarillo, Heyes turned about, “far as I can figure, the creosote was too thick on the inside of stove pipe.”

Holstering the Colt, Curry stepped down from his saddle, “all the gang..” he nodded toward the cabin.

“Yep, because what makes me such a great leader---”

“He USED that on you again.”

“Yeah, and I fell for it…again.”

Staring at their cabin, Curry plucked the cigarillo from Heyes’ fingers, taking a strong draw on it. When he released the smoke, it lingered about them coating his words, “all winter.”

“Least until we can get a new place built.”

Curry took another drag on the cigarillo, “all winter.”

Taking his smoke back, Heyes grinned over at his pal, “It's going to be a long, long bleak winter.”

“Hell, if it is, we won’t get a moment's peace.”

Heyes nodded, tossing the used up smoke into the rubble of the burnt building, “like I said a long, long bleak winter designed to try the nerves of even the calmest man.”

“That is more likely.”

Having ridden closer, Preacher beamed down on the leaders, “it won’t be that bleak, for even though the frosty wind moans, the earth is hard as iron, and snow shall fall tonight, you have offered from your heart to those who had none.” Having said this, he took a swig from his ever-present whiskey flask. “Your giving heart, both of your hearts which overflow with Christiane warmth, will keep the dark at bay.”

Nodding at them, Preacher spun his horse toward the barn, leaving the pair of outlaw leader’s staring after in astonishment until Curry shook himself free. “What was that?”

“Not sure, but I still believe…” Heyes flopped an arm over Curry’s shoulder, “despite giving hearts, our nerves are going to be tried beyond the Christiane warmth that supposedly fills them.”

“And, that I understand and will agree with.”


	21. Too MAny Outlaws to a Cabin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the cycle continues to turn we left the Leader's Cabin overflowing with the entire Devil's Hole Gang in the beginning of winter.....surely something has to break in a set-up like this....who or what will it be?

“Eleven, twelve, thirteen-”

“What are you counting?”

“Pinecones. Thirteen—”

“On the ground or in the tree?”

“There’s thirty-two on the ground, thirteen-”

“Then in the tree,” came a chipper reply, followed by, “you getting anywhere near locking down your temper?”

“You interrupting isn’t helping.”

“What they do now?”

“What haven’t they done?”

“Well, I’m sure there is plenty they haven’t done.”

“Yeah? Name some.”

Silence stretched between the partners.

“Well?”

“You put me on the spot, I can’t think.”

“Go away,” Curry replied, raising his face to the tree, once more muttering numbers.

There came a clatter from above, and two pinecones plopped into the soft, brown nest of needles surrounding the tree.

“You already count that pair?”

“You come out here to rile me up further?” Curry snarled, not bothering to face his partner.

“Having heard you threatened,” there was a pause filled with a definite sarcastic snort, “to put anyone who followed you under the soil already alerted me you were riled.”

“Still, here you are.”

“Knew you wouldn’t put _me_ under the soil.”

Blue eyes slowly lowered to Hannibal Heyes, casually standing with his thumbs tucked into his beltline, “you sure.”

“Out here, aren’t I.”

Folding his arms across his chest, Curry heaved out a chuffing sigh.

“Keep telling you to ignore them.”

“I can’t read the way you do.”

“Now, that isn’t true.” Heyes grinned, “I was there when you were taught how.”

“Heyes, I am not in the mood for _you_ ‘bout now.”

The grin became a chuckle that earned Heyes a few well spat curse words, which only made him laugh louder. Taking a breath, he, at last, gasped, “I have a plan to rescue you.”

Shifting his weight to his heels, Curry raised his chin with a scowl.

Despite the gunfighter’s glare which, almost always, caused others to walk away, Heyes grinned heartily, saying, “been looking ‘round the Hole, and I’ve found enough supplies to build a comfy room in the back corner of the barn.”

“How big of a room?”

Rolling his lower lip through his teeth, Heyes answered, “10x10.”

“You planning on bunking there?”

A barking laugh erupted from Heyes, and he threw a quick look toward the Leader’s Cabin, “of course.”

“Then it isn’t going to work. ‘Cause after a few days, I _would_ be ready to put _you_ in the ground.” Jabbing a finger toward his and Heyes’ cabin, Curry shouted, “move them to the barn.”

Swallowing hard, Heyes’ mouth twisted to the side, and when he spoke, he looked a bit greenish, “can’t do that, I uhm...well, I can’t.”

“Oh, I know…” Curry rolled his eyes, “what makes you such a good leader is—”

“Stop!” Heyes shouted, “I already know it is foolish to let Kyle lead me on with such verbose praise.”

Curry’s nose wrinkled, “verbose is right.”

Heyes’ tongue flicked across his lower lip, and with a puckish toothy grin, he said, “You don’t know what verbose means, do you?”

Stepping up on Heyes, Curry jabbed an indignant, rigid finger in his pal’s chest. “You really thinking this is the time to be showing off.”

Heyes raised his eyebrows in response.

Curry jabbed him again, breathing into his face, “You want to show off, you figure out how to free us from living shoulder to shoulder with the entire gang.”

Above the turmoil rising from the leader’s cabin, the sharp thrum of a Jew’s Harp rang out, the twanging being somewhat recognizable as the ‘Rose of Alabama.’

“Damn it!” Curry barked, throwing his head back. “Lobo’s found that harp, again. I am _not_ going back in there.”

Heyes studied the cabin, rubbing a palm along his jawline he muttered, “We could go to Lottie’s.”

“You want to try the passes this late in January?”

Releasing a chirking sound, Heyes shrugged, “shot down the barn idea, won’t go back inside, can’t have you killing off our gang. Doesn’t leave many choices.”

Curry stared loathingly at the cabin, for a long drawn out minute, before replying. “Fine, let’s try for Lottie’s.”

Heyes’ relaxed, full smile finally appeared, “Great! Let me tell the boys.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“Kid, we can’t just ride off.”

“And why not?”

“That’d be like us abdicating our leadership.”

“Really? Abdicating?”

“It’s when-”

“I know what it means.”

“You do??”

The blue eyes narrowed.

“Go on and inform them. Just make sure they know, we two...” he jabbed Heyes in the chest hard enough to set him back a step, “...are going, and they are _not.”_

“But, they will want to.”

“Are you their leader or not?”

A deep frown darkened Heyes’ face, pitting his dimple into his cheek.

“Well?”

“I’ll inform ‘em.”

\------ASJ-------ASJ-------ASJ--------ASJ---------ASJ----------ASJ---------

“Didn’t expect to see so many fresh sets of tracks leading into Lottie’s this time of day,” Curry said, squinting under the noon sun reflecting off the glistening, ice-crusted snow.

“Has to be the cold,” Heyes responded, hastening after his partner for the Chicken Ranch’s front door, “I’m frozen clear through.”

“’Bout the same,” Curry answered, knocking snow from his boots against Lottie's front steps, the hollow thumping sounding unusually loud on the snow-blanketed day.

Their stomping had worked as well as knocking for when they looked up, a tiny, flamboyantly attired, full-figured lady had opened the door and was holding onto it eyeing the pair of them.

“Hello,” Curry said, glancing to Heyes before asking, “Lottie not welcoming her guests in?”

“Busy day, quite a few guests already inside.”

“And, now two more,” Heyes answered, a little too brightly, shouldering past his partner. “Don’t believe we’ve met before.”

Tilting her head, which was topped with piles and piles of golden curls, to the side, the woman peered up into Heyes’ face. “No, we haven’t, I wouldn’t be forgettin’ such a smile as yours.” She held up her dainty hand, the heavy rings adorning it, making it look even smaller. “I’m Jenny Black.”

Taking the offered hand, Heyes brushed his lips across the back of it, “Hannibal Heyes, Ma’am.” He tipped his head toward his partner, “and this here’s Kid Curry. Mind inviting us in before we’re to stove up to do so?”

Stepping back, Jenny opened the door wide, “Heard of you.” Once they were in, she shut the door, flicking its brass lock into place. “And, mighty fine to meet you both.”

They nodded, pulling gloves, and unbuttoning their coats while peering at the thick, burgundy jacquard curtains somewhat muffling the cheerful sounds emitting from Lottie’s drinking and gambling parlor. 

“Noticed some good horses in the barn,” Kid said, his blue eyes flicking toward Jenny. “Who all is here?”

“Fraid I’m not much help,” she answered, a smile flitting across her face. “I haven’t been here long enough to learn the local's names.”

“Yet, you knew us. . .” Heyes said, glancing warily to Curry, “. . . and Lottie’s allowing you to mind the door.”

A kitten purr of laughter rolled from Jenny, “Ain’t you the suspicious one. Sugah, everyone knows y’alls names and, Lottie and me, we been pals, or as she would say _bonne amis,_ for an awful long while. So, don’t you be frettin’ so.”

Heyes’ nose wrinkled, but Curry’s broad, cheerful smile appeared. “Nevermind Heyes, he is a born skeptic. It’s good to meet you, Miz. Jenny,” and saying this, he offered her his hand to shake.

“Oh, goodness, that’s too formal.” Reaching up, she pulled Curry into a full embrace, kissing him. “You just call me, Jenny, and I deem we’ll be dandy pals, right quick.”

Grinning like one bringing rare news, Curry chuckled, “betting we will.”

Turning to Heyes, Jenny raised one sharp eyebrow, tilting a bright blue eye up at him.

Bending, he obligingly planted a peck on her rounded cheek.

With a shake of her head, that set her curls to bobbing, she playfully sighed, “suppose it is a start.”

“It is,” he answered, and loosening some, offered her, his arm, “shall we join the others?”

Grinning wickedly, she leaned in close, “ _only_ in all good things.”

A soft snort escaped Heyes, “I might have to concede to friendship quicker than I was planning, Jenny, I just may.” Pulling back the curtains, he escorted Jenny in with the entire room turning to see who they might be.

Just off-center, near a Faro game, stood a bald man in an iron black suit, his pale eyes widening as they fell on Heyes and in return Heyes’ dark eyes did the same on recognizing the man as Hue Milton, a known take ‘em in dead sort of bounty hunter.

Without hesitation, Milton twisted, reaching for his pistol.

As he did, the room spun around Heyes, everything slowing down. He could see Sam behind the bar shouting a warning, gamblers and sporting gals turning, leaning, diving from being caught between Milton and his obvious target. Wrapping his arms about Jenny, Heyes flung himself to the side, pulling her from harm’s way while hollering “Kid, straight ahead.”

However, Curry did not need the warning as he had already locked on Milton and was pulling his Colt. Which would be the technical description of what Curry did, because he no longer felt the actual motion, only the weight of the Colt as he flung it forward with fire bursting from its muzzle.

Hue Milton flew back, blood spraying from his gun shoulder, his own bullet showering down ceiling plaster above where Heyes had been standing.

When Milton hit the floor, a collective gasp was exhaled by the room. Except, the bounty hunter was not done, and rolling to his side, he scrambled to his knees, and using both hands, he brought his own Colt back to bear on Kid Curry. “Name of the law, I aim to arrest you.”

“Not tonight, Milton,” Curry answered, “drop your piece.”

“You’ll shoot me through if I do.”

“Not my style, although it's known to be yours.”

Milton’s pistol wavered, blood pumping from his wound, staining his shirtfront a dark merlot.

“You’ve lost this round, Milton.”

The pistol hit the floor with a hard thud, and heaving out a rattling groan, Milton pushed himself up, using the Faro table to leverage himself to his feet.

Stepping forward, Lottie’s face was near as red as her hair, “ _Monsieur_ , it be well known, I _non_ allow huntin’ in _mon_ place. Not ever!”

Gripping tight of the table's leather padded edge, Milton turned an ugly face to Lottie. “I have no care for what a well-dressed whore has to say.” Shoving himself up, he jerked a pistol from behind his back, but even as he stretched out his arm for Curry, a belching roar overwhelmed all other sounds and folding in half Milton dropped to the floor like a bag of potatoes.

Placing a smoking sawed-off shotgun on the tabletop, the faro dealer drawled, “It is uncouth to address a lady in such a horrid manner.”

His words breathed life back into the room, its inhabitants cheering agreement.

Disentangling himself from Jenny’s voluminous green silk dress, Heyes rose up, bringing the gasping blonde with him as Curry holstered his firearm.

Putting her hands on her ample hips, Lottie squealed, “ _Par Dieu_ , Doc! Now, _moi_ has to call for the Law instead of the _docteur_.”

Standing, the dealer smoothed an errant lock of hair away, his entire face alight with mischief. “I’d say all you truly require is the undertaker.”

“You fully well know, it do not work that way, _Monsieur_ Holliday,” Lottie answered, jabbing a finger directly at the thin, wide-shouldered man. “What is it goin’ cost _moi_ to have you removed from the skillet, yet again?”

Snagging Lottie’s hand, Holliday pulled it to his mouth, kissing her palm, “Come now, Darlin’, ain’t I been your good luck charm?”

She shook her head, “ _Chér_ , I’d say as lucky as number thirteen, _oui,_ that be what I’d say.”

“Ah, _Chérie_ _,_ how cruel you can be.” He grinned, kissing her palm again, “still, I am positive we shall come upon something.”

Shaking her head, but smiling, Lottie shouted, “Sam, send Mikey for the undertaker, then Sheriff Mills.” Pulling her hand from Holliday, she turned to the room, releasing a vivacious smile and a bird song laugh, she called out, “rest of y’all best be for huntin’ y’alls hidey holes.”

The room became unbelievably noisy as its occupants set to clearing out while exclaiming over what had occurred.

Heyes turned open-mouthed and wide-eyed to Curry, the pair briefly reliving the frigid two-day ride that had brought them here.


	22. Twisted Tight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They made it to Lottie's, but after an altercation, she is tossing everyone out. Well, Heyes don't think much of that at all. . . .

Curry shook his head, a frown creasing his face, and with a nod Heyes turned back to Lottie, “it is freezing out there, and there isn’t much sunlight left.”

“Well, I realize that.” She answered turning, an expression on Doc Holliday that was quite similar to Kid Curry’s. “However, Sherrif Mills will be here soon.”

Heyes’ nose wrinkled at her words, and he heard the scrape of Curry’s boots on the wood floor as he shifted. “Lottie, way I see it, me and the boys have dumped enough funding in this place to own a portion of the bricks and mortar holding it together.”

Lottie’s red curls swayed as her head tilted to the side, her eyes narrowing at the Devil’s Hole leaders.

“You thinking I am incorrect?”

“Not entirely, Heyes.” She glided toward the dark-haired man, “but, _quell_ am I to do with y’all?”

“Put us upstairs.”

“ _Quell_ if Sherrif Mills decides to search the place?”

Flicking his eyes to Doc, Heyes purred, “why you intending to lead us to slaughter?” Darkly his eyes slid back to her, his smile emerging. Only, it was not filled with the warm, impishness that so often bent Lottie Thibodeaux’s will. Truth be told, a thought flickered through her mind that he resembled a snarling wolf ready to pounce, and her nostrils flared the tiniest bit. “Well, Lottie?”

“I would not _jamais_ deal with y’all in such a manner.”

Heyes nodded, “come on, Kid, let’s find a warm spot to roost upstairs.” Stalking past her, he whispered in a threatening tone, “do not be forgetting you dubbed as your _bonne amis_.”

The muscles down Lottie’s back clenched, “you be in the wrong threatening _moi, Monsieur_ Hannibal Heyes.”

Not even glancing back, Heyes started up the side stairs.

Stopping beside her, Curry softly said, “don’t be mindin’ him none, Lottie, he gets twisted tight sometimes, even when he shouldn’t.” Curry looked to his partner, “he doesn’t mean nothing by it.”

Laying her hand along Curry’s sun-tanned neck, she kissed his cheek, “ _Merci beaucoup,_ Kid.”

Having moved from behind his Faro table, Doc Holliday’s soft southern voice drawled out unusually hard, “shall I remove said, gentleman?” He nodded toward Heyes.

Curry’s head pivoted his way, “make a move, and I’ll put a limp in your walk.”

Doc smiled fiendishly, “like to see you try, boy…oh, dear me, excuse me, _Kid_.”

Curry’s shoulders squared, his buried temper simmering to the surface.

Her hand still cupping his neck, Lottie traced her thumb along his jawline, “don’t be mindin’ Doc none, he gets twisted tight sometimes also.”

Curry’s eyes dropped to Lottie.

“Go on up, afore the Law arrives.” Stepping back from Curry, she scolded Doc, “and, _vous_ start considerin’ _quell_ we are going to tell _Monsieur_ Mills.”

In the hall leading north and south from the side stairs, Curry came up on Heyes speaking with a gal with short, dark auburn curls who flashed a playful grin, “Hey, Kid.”

Nodding, he replied, “Darby.”

“Just tryin’ to convince Heyes to join me,” her lower lip emerged in an exaggerated pout. “But, he. . .” she shook her head.

“Like I been saying, I ain’t in the mood, just point out an empty room.”

“Well, _like I been saying_ , there ain’t no empty rooms.” She crossed her arms over the corset, which was quite amazingly managing to keep her full, jiggling bosoms restrained. “Why would the Chicken Ranch have empty rooms, wouldn’t make no sense, now would it?”

A laugh rolled from Curry, “she has you there.”

In a cool hard tone, Heyes replied, “not in the mood for much of anything ‘bout now.”

The laugh rolled forth again, “says the man who won’t let me be when he knows I am ready to put men beneath the ground.” Seeing his jab wedged a crack into the hard shell encasing his partner, Curry patted him on the back. “She was defending her place, just like you would the Hole.”

“Isn’t right her thinking to throw us out with the other rabble.”

“Sure, she wasn’t considering us rabble.”

Heyes’ nose wrinkled.

“More likely, she thought we’d be safer someplace else.”

“Out in the cold!?”

“Well, we ain’t in the cold and Darby…” Curry laughed, “is more than willing to thaw you out.”

Darby nodded briskly.

Stepping about the pair, Curry asked, “Marjorie alone?”

“She is,” Darby answered, and at the sharp rap of Curry’s fist on Marjorie’s door, she turned back to Heyes. Sighing, she stroked a lock of hair that had escaped his hat from his face. “Well, Sugah, you gonna stand out in the hall fumin’?” Taking his hand, she gave it a gentle tug, “or???”


End file.
